


in blood our eulogies shall be drawn

by shilu_ette



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Dubious Morality, Fix-It, Gen, HP: EWE, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mental Instability, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Powerful Harry, Slow Build, Slytherin Harry, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, Werewolf Issues, World War II, basically everyone is a little fucked up after the war, especially Harry, everyone has dubious morals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 155,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8691067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilu_ette/pseuds/shilu_ette
Summary: The war is over but Harry does not know how to move on.  Harry deals with Tom Riddle inside his head. His godson is dead. Malfoy gets bitten by a werewolf and awaits his death sentence. Ron and Hermione are concerned with Harry's apathy to live. And Death is constantly amused by it all, offering Harry a choice to rewrite parts of his life. He returns back to the past as a war veteran and is determined to prevent a pointless war. But nothing is what it seems. Older, Harry is confronted with the follies of his mentors, the motivations of the Dark Lord, and eventually travels back in time far more than he had bargained for. A story about Death, the Hallows and the War.Warnings: Dub-con, mind manipulation, and heavy inferences on depression/PTSD throughout the series. Also, partial time traveling and mentions of WW2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a fan of bashing any characters, nor am I trying to write an apologist view of Voldemort. There would be an attempt to explain why Tom Riddle was so afraid of death and strove to break his soul into seven parts in order to escape it at any cost. There would be heavy dub-con later, and some mindfuckery. Please be aware of the warnings listed above, and thank you for taking the time to read!

Harry, _Harry._

The world is barren and cold. He is dreaming; sleep comes to him with a cooing voice, softly caressing his mind and offering him comfort he does not feel in his waking hours.

Someone speaks. It is a familiar voice that whispers to him, his name, Harry Potter, and he only sees blackness. There is nothing and he is stumbling. But the name beckons at him.

The dreams begin thus.

Harry.

A soft, melodic voice that lures him to walk forth his wand out and heart thudding. For he knows this voice, knows the mockery that is hidden inside those words…

He opens his eyes and his vision becomes blurred. And in his dreams, for in his dreams is the world a cold, flat wasteland, a pallid shade of greyness surrounds him.

And in his dreams, only in his dreams,

Tom Riddle awaits him.

Tom Riddle awaits him with his handsome face, his shining dark eyes. Ever the patient boy the future Dark Lord is, as he continuously stands still even as Harry comes to him with his echoing footsteps, wand already drawn and pointed. Riddle dismisses his wary gesture with a cruel smirk, his eyes alit and dancing. It is a Tom that has some shred of humanity left in him to understand human glee but too far gone to truly immerse himself in amusement.

“Harry Potter,” he says, his voice frightfully light, as he looks back and forth at Harry’s face and his wand, his mocking gaze polished anew as the silence draws on, “Have you come to kill me?” Around them, the walls are drab and there is nothing around them. He is trapped in a void; perfect for a duel, perfect for blood to splatter upon these walls.

Harry draws in a sharp breath; _I have killed you, many times_ , he would have liked to say _. I have hunted and destroyed your Horocuxes, I have died at your wandpoint and still came back alive; you could not have killed me when I was a child and you cannot kill me now_. But the words die at his throat, because the Riddle standing here must know all this, and perhaps more—and yet. He is still here, young and dashing and dangerous, looking at Harry as if he is nothing more than an amusing pet. When Harry does not answer immediately, Riddle merely cocks his head and smirks, inviting him with his pliant gesture, and all Harry can do is stare helplessly. _Why are you inside my head_ , he thinks, almost hysterical.

Riddle is always the one to break this uneasy silence, with a sigh and a wave of his hand; Harry flinches, and Riddle pretends not to notice.

“Well, if you haven’t come to finish me off,” he speaks, with some bite to his otherwise friendly words, “Perhaps we can have some tea. What do you say.”

On cue, a kettle and a cup pop up out of nowhere. Riddle conjures up two armchairs and a small coffee table. Harry makes his way unsteadily towards where Riddle in easing himself in one of the chairs. Harry waits, standing, until Riddle raises an eyebrow mockingly. _Well_ , his look seems to say, _sit down, what are you waiting for._ Harry wets his lips and tries to say something devastatingly sharp, something wild, to throw Riddle off. Perhaps then Harry will wake up from this strange nightmare.

“Why are you here?” he finally settles out, and he is angry to find how his voice sounds weak. He steers forth. “You’re dead. You’ve been dead for ten years.”

Riddle never answers to Harry’s questions. Riddle only waits for him to exhaust himself. On better days Harry would shout and brandish his wand, and Riddle would watch this with a frown because Harry never truly does lash out; with this young Riddle, his magic becomes null and he cannot kill like a wizard.

Harry sits down and glares at the older boy sullenly. Riddle sighs.

“I’ll be mother then, shall I?” he says, and with another wave, the kettle brews, the tea is steeped, and in no time at all, a steaming cup of tea floats towards him.

Is it poisoned, Harry thinks, is it safe, there should be something in the tea, shouldn’t there. Aloud, he speaks with a false sense of calm he does not feel. “I didn’t know that Dark Lords had time to play houseguests.”

Riddle’s eyebrows twitch, but his voice is deceptively pleasant as he replies, “But we’re in your head, aren’t we? It’s the least I can do to make this place a bit more…hospitable.” He says the last words with a slight sneer. Harry watches how Riddle holds himself. He sits like an old aristocrat, with his thin fingers delicately resting on the armrest and a leg casually crossing over another. It reminds him of yet another bratty, spoiled child, and he tries to speak the name. Something stops him.

“What is it about powerful wizards hanging inside my head,” Harry mutters instead.

Riddle tilts his head and looks at him, traces of his amusement replaced with sudden sincerity.

“Do you think I’m powerful, Harry?” he inquires.

Harry snorts before he can help it. “You are the greatest Dark Lord that’s been around my generation, _Riddle_ ,” he says, carefully placing emphasis on the surname. Voldemort in his time had used deceptively fond mockery to fool him; Harry has not forgotten that. He holds his wand loosely just in case, for old habits die hard, and Riddle studies how stiff he is. There is a trace of irritation etched in those fair brows.

“But you defeated me,” Riddle points out.

“And you’re still here,” Harry replies, terse. He pointedly does not drink his tea before Riddle does, and Riddle sighs as if he knows what Harry is thinking, his sip singular and loud. The sound echoes in the hollow room.

“I’m here because you want me to be, Potter,” Riddle says, now with all pleasantries gone. “It’s your head and hence, your rules. Really now, you’re such a child in some ways after all these years.”

“Why would I want you here?” Harry demands. He still has not touched his cup. “I’ve had enough of you inside my head to last me a lifetime, thanks ever so.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t know,” Riddle says, and this conversation seems to bore him now, the way his eyes flit over to the rest of the room. Harry does not know what he finds more infuriating, Riddle with his eyes studying him with hunger, or that dismissive gaze that leaves him cold. “I wouldn’t have let us meet in such a dismal room, for one.”

“You’d rather we meet in a basilisk’s chamber instead?” Harry snaps, but Riddle seems unfazed, even giving him a sharp grin in reply.

“Yes,” Riddle says, “Or perhaps a graveyard. Mayhap even a forest.” And Riddle laughs, the high, cold sound vibrating around the four walls. _Such a familiar sound_ , Harry thinks. His hands shake and his head hurts. Too often he had banished thoughts of Lord Voldemort and the last days of the battle over the years, letting it fester in an ugly corner inside his head. He does not permit himself to dream of his own death: the flash of the green light sweeping under his feet, the cold dirt pressing on his cheek, the horrified shouts of his friends at his body. Too often he had denied those days, the past long gone and buried, but he had never quite managed to forget the sound of his nemesis’s glee. He listens to it now, wondering when he would wake, if he should ever wake up.

“Not very funny to you, it would seem,” Riddle observes, when Harry fails to react. The walls continue to shake.

“No,” Harry returns flatly, “No, not particularly.”

He sets the tea back into the saucer and wills himself. _Wake up._

 

He wakes.

.

.

.

“Your house is always so ghastly, Potter. Does your house elf never clean up after your mess?” Malfoy greets him with a sneer, making sure to thump his wet boots in the doorway. Harry watches on, impassive.

In the daylight, there exists no evil maniac to kill him at every turn; there is no young man to offer him tea and false pleasantries. Awake, there is only his old, tattered house that his dead godfather left behind and Malfoy, if he can ever be called something constant, to barge in his parlor and act as if he owned the entirety of Grimmuald Place. Malfoy makes sure to look around the house with utter disdain, even if Kreacher always makes sure to clean the hallways and the dining area, where Malfoy spends most of his time glaring at the walls while hurling innocuous insults at Harry. They would have fazed Harry once. Now, he only gives a small shrug and returns back to his tepid and safe tea. He does not bother much with Malfoy these days, nor anyone. He sits and broods alone, waiting for the sun to set.

Malfoy huffs and takes a seat across Harry, snapping his finger impatiently for Kreacher to appear with another cup. The kettle and the cups pop a second later, and Malfoy takes great time to prepare his cup, muttering darkly all the while. For someone who is on house arrest, Malfoy has never been subdued in Harry’s presence. If anything, Malfoy is a continuous sore in his life, sniping and hurling old insults that take Harry back to the better days of his school years, when all he had to worry about was Malfoy and his dirty tricks. There are days when he would sit by Malfoy’s forced presence, letting hurtful words roll off him like a soothing balm, allowing him to pretend everything was childish and golden. Then there are days when…well, there are other days.

“Potter? Have you gone deaf?” Malfoy is such a child whenever Harry sees him, always bitter and raging about the smallest things. His eyes are narrowly focused on Harry, his lips thinned in annoyance.

_You would be too, if both your parents are in Azkaban and you’re also waiting for a trial that may damn you or set you free out in the cold, hostile world._

An amused voice slithers out, sounding surprisingly like the Riddle in his dreams. Harry responds to it without giving it too much thought. 

_Funny, you would think think I’d be a roaring madman by now, seeing how my parents are both dead._

_You don’t count_ , the Riddle-voice points out patiently. _You never knew your parents._

_And whose fault is that?_

_Oh, another madman’s, I daresay_. Riddle’s voice is unrepentant. _You seem to have quite a few of them scattered about._

“Potter!”

With a sigh, Harry slides the pot that holds condensed cream towards the blond boy, who snatches it up with a pronounced sneer. He pours a small dollop to drop into the steaming cup and Harry watches on, holding imagined conversations with a ghost he cannot seem to vanquish.

“There’s nothing overtly fascinating about my cup of tea, Potty,” Malfoy says, his hand busily stirring, “Or do you have something inventive to say to help us pass the time?”

Harry gives a little jerk of his head. “There’s the library down the hallways, why don’t you get lost there,” he says tiredly. His voice, when it speaks in the morning light, comes out in a small rasp. Malfoy follows the way his fingers reach out and curl around the base of his throat, and Harry massages his neck under a pair of intense grey eyes. Their eyes briefly meet.

_Well, of course he would like to wrap around his pureblood fingers around your neck. Leave to you gasp and choke for mercy while he looks on. Such a fitting way to die, wouldn’t you say?_

_There are other ways_ , Harry thinks. He stands up and Malfoy immediately looks away with a small frown.

“Your library is hideous and unorganized,” Malfoy spits. “As you know. It’s a shame that you can’t even begin to appreciate what’s in your own house, Potter. It’s not as you have any time to sit down and read, is it?”

“Not really, no,” Harry agrees. He is already turning away to go back to his bedroom. “Places to be, cameras to smile at. All that rot. Shame you can’t do the same.”

Harry leaves before Malfoy can reply, or worse, throw a stinging hex at him. Not that he could, but with magic, it’s the intention that counts. One never knows.

.

.

.

Sometimes Riddle appears in his dreams as a child: hungry and angry with his too wide eyes and thin limbs, staring at Harry with a haughty posture that is worn awkwardly around his youth. In those dreams, Harry takes the place of Dumbledore, and he sees how shabby Riddle’s first home had been, with his hard bed and a chest of drawers holding his worldly possessions.

 _Who are you?_ The young Riddle would demand, and at times, Harry hesitates, wondering what the hell his dreams are trying to tell him, placing him with a child who is not yet a murderer, only a boy still, with an eerily coldness about him.

 _What am I?_ The young boy snaps at other times, and this question is easier to answer. Harry would reply with restraint. You’re a wizard. He sees how the words transform Riddle, how easily the boy accepts his fate with such eagerness and a natural grace Harry could not have showed at that age.

Magic, is it? Riddle breathes, and his look can be seen as innocent. Innocent in its joy, savage in its ambition.

Yes, Harry says. He watches Riddle prattle off: I always knew I was special; I wasn’t just like all the others and this proves it. Etcetera. Riddle had always a thing for flair and dramatics, Harry remembers. He does not interrupt, choosing to observe instead how stained Riddle’s shirt is despite its starched edges, and how wild those hand movements are. I wonder what it is like to kill a child, Harry thinks. He feels almost wistful.

Well? Riddle demands. Show me some magic, prove to me that such a thing exists!

Harry waves his wand with a flourish. In this worlds, with a young and vulnerable Tom Riddle, his magic sings to him. His magic roars to life and demands to devour. So Harry indulges and waves his hand. His wand sets up a spark and Riddle’s eyes, they turn to bewilderment then delight then horror. He sets the room on fire and hears Riddle howl from afar, and he finds himself laughing. It is a high, shrill cry. The smell of burning flesh surrounds him.

 

He wakes. A voice rings out in the silent bedroom, _Harry, surely you did not wish me such a barbaric death? Where is the mercy that Dumbledore had taught you?_ The voice coos at him, soft in its mockery. _Where is the_ love _that your Mudblood mother gave you all those years ago? Has it gone now? Has it ever been there?_

Harry cannot answer.

.

.

.

Malfoy takes to holing up in the library most of the time, reading battered books about the Dark Arts and Black family history with grim eyes. He stays there until lunchtime, curled up in a leathered chair positioned towards the fireplace, until Kreacher rings the bell in the dining hall. Mealtimes are the only times when Harry truly interacts with Malfoy, and even then it cannot be called a proper conversation, with Malfoy scoffing at everything, from the state of Harry’s clothes to his dubious heritage, and Harry answering in monosyllables. This would often work Malfoy up in a fury, and he would only be placated with Kreacher’s dessert trays, which he would take to stuffing with furious zeal.

“Don’t they feed you in that Manor of yours?” Harry had once thought to ask, and received a cold glare in reply.

“My Manor, Potter, has been confiscated by the Ministry,” Malfoy snapped, “Along with the rest of my possessions. You spoke at my trial; you should know—oh, but wait!” Malfoy’s eyes grew comically wide as his lips curled into an ugly sneer. “I’m not the only one you had to save in that rotten war of yours, how silly of me to forget. I’m just another one of your charity cases, awaiting my death sentence at your mercy, aren’t I?”

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy,” Harry had returned, more than a little irritated. The wording of that accusation had always gotten to him and Malfoy took full advantage of his irk, even though Harry had never called him out on it. _It was just as your war as it had been mine, don’t blame me for your parents’ daft decisions, it was a rotten war just as for me as it had been for you, you prejudiced pureblood git._ Harry has never spoken those words out loud; they would have been delivered with a flatness Harry was incapable of chasing away, and his tone would not hold the righteous anger Harry knew he should feel. Yet Malfoy would flash him a cold, knowing smile all the same, delighted for once to get a rare rise out of Harry.

But otherwise, the routine never changes; Malfoy storms into the dining hall and picks at the meal and insults Kreacher while Harry barely touches his own plate; later, Malfoy demands his platter of scones and cakes and stuffs himself silly while Harry stares resolutely at the wall and sips his tea. Kreacher is always worried about the state of Harry’s plate, his stooped figure slouched in rejection as he morosely fingers the food left after an untouched meal.

“Master Harry should eat more,” the elf croaks, clearly not used to worrying about young masters who failed to take care of themselves in the proper way.

“I’m not hungry,” Harry would reply, and Malfoy would only roll his eyes and cut himself another piece of cake.

“And young Master Malfoy as well; sir is looking pale.” Kreacher is at ease with Malfoy as he had never been with Ron and Hermione. Not that Malfoy would appreciate the house elf’s fawning; Kreacher is soon met with a pronounced sniff and a sharp dismissal of Malfoy’s hand.

“Stay away from me, elf,” Malfoy mutters, “And bring me some more of these cakes.”

Kreacher sighs and disappears to do his bidding, tugging at his ear in dismay.

“You could be a bit nicer,” Harry says.

“I could also smother you in your sleep, Potter. Believe me, I am showing incredible restraint just by being here.”

 _You’re not here by choice, you daft twat_ , Harry is about to say, but he bites his tongue before the words come stumbling out. It’s not as if Malfoy’s unaware, otherwise they would not be stuck in this room suffering each other’s lousy company. He’s just doing that to get a reaction, so that they can whip out their wands and start desecrating the room. It would be better than all this underlying antagonistic behavior; neither of them had never been particularly good at playing subtle.

.

.

.

Draco Malfoy was not a wiling ward, nor Harry his first choice for a guard. It came down to the desperate request of a war veteran, who was already caught up in more serious problems than dealing with once-adolescent Death Eaters. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt was a man who had fought both wars that Voldemort had wrought and lived to tell the tale; when it came down to it, very few could claim to do the same. He sat in Shacklebolt’s office that day, uneasy and curious as to what the older man wanted, observing at how austere and bare his surroundings looked. Shacklebolt looked at him, and through his gaze, Harry could feel his silent strength that came with his unflinching eyes and wan smile. Dumbledore had plotted and maneuvered his plans for the greater good all inside his glided, golden cage, whilst Kingsley had fought in the battlefield and bathed himself in gore and blood. His past showed upon his stiff posture, always ready to strike at a moment’s notice, even after all these years. Harry felt strangely reassured by this, and waited for Shacklebolt to speak.

The man shifted around in his chair before he coughed, and talked about the matter at hand. The conversation was brief and the appeal nothing short of a plea. He pulled out a name that Harry has not heard in nearly a decade, and Harry took his time to roll the words around in his head.

“Malfoy’s been marked,” he repeated, dumfounded. He was allowed to be a bit taken aback at this stage. The war was supposed to be gone; bedtime stories now, for children who were too carefree in their ways, legends that older people took care to embellish into acts of heroism and valor.

Shacklebolt nodded, looking tired. “We’re trying to find Fenrir Greyback,” he said, “He’s been lurking around in the Highlands, from what we’ve last heard. Muggles have seen him, or at least their reports match up with his appearance. He seems to be a bit unhinged. Not particularly surprising, considering…” He rubbed a hand over his hand absentmindedly, and Harry appreciated the gesture for what it was. It was a vague frustration and worry that gnawed at the both of them.

“Do you think he’s trying to round up old followers, then?” he asked.

“No, not at this stage. Not yet.” Shacklebolt lets out a terse laugh. “There’s no new Dark Lord to rally against, and I don’t see a new generation of Death Eaters cropping up left and right. Do you?”

Harry shook his head. “Then why would he…?”

“Revenge,” Shacklebolt said shortly, his eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps he got bored. Frankly, I don’t care to look into the whimsical minds of madman these days.” _We have all been there once and have buried our dead long ago._ “In any case, we’re trying to found of why now, out of all times. It’s been, well. It’s been years now. Voldemort isn’t coming back anytime soon. The Malfoys are in Azkaban and the Lestranges dead. What more could that werewolf want?”

 _Oh, but to mark the youngest Malfoy heir into a sub-human being is such a tantalizing thought. Imagine the horror of that young boy as he transforms into something he once mocked and detested with his very being. Will he perish in shame?_ A voice crept up inside him, a small hiss, and Harry shoved it at the back of his mind without much thought. Those were the early days, when the voice was nothing but a snide presence, and Harry often took it to mean his own malicious thoughts bubbling inside him.

“So,” Shacklebolt said, sighing. He looked at Harry in a way that no one had ever quite looked at him. He does not have the pitying gaze of Molly Weasley nor the affectionate look of Remus Lupin. He looked at Harry as one would do a comrade; an acknowledgement of his skills and sacrifices, and the confidence that Harry would do what was right and necessary.

Harry swallowed. He thought he should feel something then. A warmth that would bask in the compliments Shacklebolt was offering him. The horror at seeing Malfoy again. The agony of trying to figure out what he wanted to do in his life.

Nothing ever came; nothing ever did.

“Okay,” he said dully, “I think that’ll work. Grimmuald Place is warded with the right protection charms, anyways.”

.

.

.

In his dreams, Death comes in the form of grief.

Awake, Harry does not know how to truly grieve. He lies on his bed and count the cracks on the ceiling, trying to let his emotions take control of him as he waits for a feeling to take over him. Let it be anger, Harry thinks dully, let it be sadness. Heck, let it even be giddiness. Hysteria. Who cares; as long as there is something, I can take it.

There never is, and in the end, Harry sleeps, and dreams. He enters a small clearing where a small crowd had gathered already with bowed heads. Nearer, he hears a woman weeping. He looks down and sees that he is wearing formal black robes. He is in mourning. Oh, so it will be one of those dreams. Harry lets out a small sigh and walks resolutely past the rows of chairs until he reaches the coffin.

In the funeral, Harry first feels the ancient presence around him before he sees Death, crouching and swaying in the shadows under the willow trees. Death is cloaked like his worst fear, a cold and hooded grey figure. He does not acknowledge the shiver that passes through his body; he suddenly feels very cold and old, staring up at the hollow sockets of what he presumes are Death’s eyes.

A thin mouth twitches and a head is tilted. Death does not turn away from his raging fury, and Harry is left glaring beyond the shadows, his body unmoving in front of Teddy’s coffin, his hands clenched into fists, shaking. He revels in these moments more than anything and shows his anger like a proud wound, for only in his dreams can he allow his hands to shake and form tears that leave wet streaks on his cheeks.

“Harry,” Hermione whispers, and the steady tone of her voice startles him. He looks back again to the coffin where Teddy’s body is put to rest, his godson whom Death took. He wills his hand to steady itself as he reaches over to brush down a strand of hair from the unmoving body. He looks so peaceful with his hands folded and eyes closed. Harry looks away.

Later, when everyone had left, Death awaits him in the shadows, his figure swishing against the night wind gently, and the tree leaves move with him. Harry steps in front of him and those bottomless eyes drown him. He feels a dark amusement creeping upon the creature of the underworld and the funeral around the dissipates into smoke. Some days Death’s shadow is preferable to Voldemort’s child demon, for Death does not actively try to wish him an early demise; Death is only patiently waiting for the inevitable end. And on other days, perhaps the cruel laughter of Tom Riddle is preferable to Death’s quiet hilarity. At least Riddle was unstable and thus unpredictable. Death only reminded him of the things he was already painfully aware of.

What good is the Master of Death, if he cannot save his only godson? Death asks, ready to be conversational and friendly. Such a pitiful title. You suffer, child, from things you cannot control.

Harry reels. Before he can control his tongue, demands are pouring out of his mouth. I want him back, Harry spits, and only in his dreams can he raise the right amount of righteous fury and the old hunger for retribution. I want my godson back, you had no right to take him away from me—

Did I take anything unjustly, Death says, Do you think death is whimsical in its prey?

He is a child! Harry shouts, and somewhere inside, a call cries out: take me instead, take me, but not him. Never him.

You speak like your deceased mother. But death does not work like that. You, of all people, should know this. Death speaks as if he is smiling under his hooded cloak. You have accepted death when you were barely an adult. And yet in some ways, you are no better than a child. You have other things to worry about, do you not? Death flexes his spindly fingers. You have ghosts inside you that you must vanquish. And perhaps after, we shall talk again. When you have sufficiently learned the meaning of your pitiful existence.

Harry stares.

Death asks softly,

Why have you returned to the living, Harry Potter? Answer that first, and perhaps we can have a discussion like equals. Until then, curb your ignorant demands unto me. 

Death banishes him; he wakes up, his mouth open and heart racing. The room greets him with its dark shadows. Harry lets out a breath.

.

.

.

Harry would later say to his befuddled friends: Malfoy’s changed. He’s not out to kill me (yet). He’s perfectly civil (unless you count the one time he threw his teacup in a fit of tantrum). The war is over; let bygones be bygones (except he flaunts his Mark, never bothers to hide it under his robes). Ron and Hermione look back at him, worry clear in their eyes, and Harry tries to give them a smile. It doesn’t work and he soon gives up.

“But Harry,” Ron tries. “It’s, it’s still the same Malfoy, yeah? The Draco Malfoy we know?” He twitches and waves his hands in the air, as if he could conjure Malfoy’s lack of charm into a physical presence. “And you said yes?”

“It wouldn’t be Harry if he refused,” Hermione says wearily, and gives him a quick smile a moment later, somewhat apologetic. Her fake smile is better than whatever he had managed to show, and he appreciates the effort. “But Harry, Ron’s right. It’s Malfoy, and you two had never quite an…amicable relationship.” She places her words strategically and carefully, but Harry is not fooled. He reads between the lines: _You were enemies throughout the years; he mocked you for your very existence; you almost killed him once; he saved you when it mattered; you saved him amidst our own death looming above us._ She does not need to say her words, for Harry is too aware of the unspoken history between them. He shrugs helplessly and Ron at least, stops trying to convey his lackluster objections with his hands.

“He’s different,” he says, his words as careful as Hermione, “And so am I. It’s been years since the war ended, and well. The war’s changed us, you know. It changed even Malfoy, I’ll bet.” And as he tries to believe this, Tom’s voice laughs, Death chuckles, and his mind rattles with the cacophony of voices. _Do not play the fool, Harry_. Tom’s voice is soft and mesmerizing, and Harry tries his hardest to shake it away. _The war had never ended for you. You are still fumbling in the middle of it. Why else would you tuck me in inside your silly little head?_

Fuck if I know, Harry thinks spitefully, maybe I’m just waiting for you at your orphanage, so I can go ahead and kill you again.

Riddle, predictably, does not answer to that.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Then there are the days when he dreams about Voldemort.

Voldemort appears to him in a forestry alone, as was fit for their last moments in the war. Or almost. The war moment that mattered, anyhow. The last battle didn't count, did it, not when there was an audience to perform to and speeches to toss around. The forest was where they truly met, face to face, Harry coming to accept his death, Voldemort waiting to execute it. Harry steps out into a small clearing, with the moon looming over him. The forest is dark and silent. At the edges of the clearing, he hears a whispering hiss, and soft slithering sound. He holds his wand at the ready, and steps forth. Upon a ragged rock the Dark Lord sits. The thin figure is clocked in a shimmering black robe, and he reminded Harry strongly of Death himself were it not for the red eyes and the pale skin that shines eerily in the moonlight. He turns his head as Harry approaches, and his face twists into something of a smile. His eyes glow alit.

“Harry Potter,” he says.

Of all the Tom Riddles that Harry meets in his dreams, it is the future Dark Lord that truly frightens him. A man stripped bare of the humanity he had once claimed, eye ravaged by madness, and that cold smile, those features alone make Harry think back again to his death and the war he had fought against this man. Voldemort only needs to acknowledge him, speaking nothing but his name, and he is eleven again, facing Voldemort for the first time. His legs threaten to buckle under him, but he keeps a steady tone.

“Tom Riddle,” he says.

Voldemort sneers. “You always were so fond of calling me by that filthy name,” he says. He does not sound angry, but one never knew with him. “As did your old fool Dumbledore. Tell me, Potter, do you think that discarded names would have power over me?”

“They must have, otherwise you wouldn’t have changed your name in the first place,” Harry says. He feels braver than he should have, foolish, reckless bravery, but this is his dream after all. He is allowed to be brash and careless of his damn consequences.

Besides. _Besides._ Voldemort is dead. He has been dead for ten years now.

Voldemort looks bored. “You truly know nothing of me, Potter. It is a shame that I had died at your ignorant hands.”

“So you do admit it, then?” Harry swallows. His throat is dry as he adjusts his wand grip. “That you’re dead, and we’re here having a little after-life chat?”

Voldemort flashes him a withering gaze that is soon covered with a tight smile. “Of my own devising, yes,” Voldemort says, and he waves his wand about. Harry jerks back a little; unlike his younger self, Voldemort does not overlook his gesture. His pale lips twist. “Twitchy, Potter,” he murmurs. “Do you not find the forest pleasing? It is where you almost died, after all. I thought you would be appreciative of the sentiment.”

“Your Horocux died,” Harry spits. “And I came back alive to kill you. As you should know.”

“Yes.” Voldemort has this way that gets to him, with his soft voice and mocking lilt, making Harry feel like a bumbling infant, ever time without fail. “And again, I have died, not because of your astonishing magic—” Voldemort allows a slight sneer in those words, “—but because of my own foolish arrogance. I should have known of ancient blood magic. I had dabbled in them once, and the more fool I. Do not let it go too much into your head, Potter.”

“I’m managing quite well enough, thanks,” Harry says. “Are you done, then? Because this still doesn’t change the fact that you’re dead, and I’m alive, and this is just some fucked-up dream of mine that I’d like to wake up from.”

Voldemort tilts his head and stares at him. Harry manages to meet those soulless red eyes, devoid of depth and warmth.

“Have you ever wondered, Potter,” Voldemort speaks, and it holds a certain tone that Harry does not quite like, “Why you ever came back to the world of living?”

“No,” Harry mutters, “But I see that someone’s been talking to Death. Good old pals, aren’t you?”

“Potter, Potter.” Voldemort clicks his tongue. “Your parents would be horrified at your lack of manners, even if this is your abominable dreamscape.”

And that does it.

 

It is strange, after all these years, that this remark is what truly riles him up for attack. His own death, the face of Lord Voldemort, the memories of the fallen and the wounded—nothing had quite made his blood boil like the taunts of his parents. Words shouldn’t have such an effect on him, he knows rationally; and yet even so, with those very words, he finds himself on the steps of 4 Privet Drive. His aunt, with her pointed, thin face stands in front of him and hisses. She digs the skin of his arm, and her words are sharp with rebuke, _your parents were a freak and they met their foul end as it was, mind that you don’t go the same way_. If he is to be generous to his aunt, there would always be a pinched face in her face afterwards, as if the she almost regretted her words, but he did not take care to look too closely. He sees now how he was too young to read the hidden layers of the human emotion, for he did not understand the complicated relationship his aunt once had with his mother. He did not know yet how his aunt had wanted magic so very dearly but was gently rejected from the world his mother reveled in. He did not know how his mother had gone onwards to shine and die in a matter of years, leaving his aunt to pick up the tattered pieces that came in the name of Harry Potter. He did not know such things yet; he was too young and uncertain of his place in life. He only knew that he was odd and lived in a cupboard and sometimes wrecked havoc in the lives of his relatives for no reason other than his very existence. He did not know he was a wizard and believed that all his life he would be amounted to nothing because his aunt told him so. His parents were proof of that, his drunken, foolish parents who were careless and cruel, leaving sensible people to care for their messes. And yet he could not find it in himself to hate the dead, as his aunt had doubtless wanted him to do, because they were his parents, his and only his, and that made all the difference. He had never known them, and so he was still yet free to cling onto foolish notions that they might have been good people once, no matter what his aunt would continually say.

Voldemort, with his casual talk of manners and parents, sets him on edge. Harry remembers, in a flash, of those miserable, shoddy years as a child, and as he remembers, his insides flare up in fury. _You did that to me_ , he thinks, as he aims his wand, _I did not deserve that and this too._

It is an old fury that unleashes out of him, a life that he thought he once thought he deserved and was denied, and his anger allows him to attack. Voldemort meets his magic, wand for wand, the pale face almost alive with malicious glee, and they fight their remaining battle in the forest, with no one to stand by to watch as an audience. Their magic sparkles and bursts around them, and they destroy the forest; they light up the sky. The world around them burns.

It is a pity that no one is around to see your heroics once more, Voldemort speaks, as an echo, somewhere in corners of his brain. Harry ignores him and grits his teeth as the sheer force of magic overwhelms him. There is no spell to be cast; only intention and malice. He focuses on: kill, so that I may live. Kill, so that he may vanish. Kill, so that I may—

Harry wakes up with a loud gasp. Standing besides his bedside is the pale face of Draco Malfoy, older and _alive_ and haggard, his face lighted only by his flickering wand.

“Potter, if you can’t sleep quietly like the rest of us, I suggest you get some Dreamless Potion to knock you out,” Malfoy snaps. His eyes look tired. Harry tries to even out his breathing as he comes to terms with his surroundings. He is in Grimmauld Place; the war is over; Voldemort is gone. He repeats those indisputable facts inside his head, even as a voice laughs at him. He bites his lips, refraining from sniping back at Malfoy. _Why is it, that you seem to sleep so well at night? You can’t, there’s no way you can’t; you saw him too, you saw him at your house, you swore an oath to him, and now you’re here and bitching to me about nightmares? How can you?_

He shakes his head a little. “I’ll ward a Silencing Spell,” he says instead. His voice croaks. Yes, he must have been screaming. “I…er. Sorry about that.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow but does not comment on the apology. He gives a short, terse nod and turns back and heads out into the doorway. Harry heaves a sigh and rubs his eyes.  

.

.

.

Awake, he has no fury. He is kind, and bland, and Ginny is exasperated beyond belief.

“I’m not saying you need to apologize, Harry,” Ginny says, for what must have been the uncountable time. She is nursing a drink and looking exasperated.  

“I know.” Harry says. Ginny lets out a frustrated growl but soon sighs. After a second they both laugh and it’s so unbearably sad.

They have had this conversation many times after the war. It had become their ritual of the same scripts and gestures; they could have their own stage set any day now, he thinks. The first time, at least, head an aura of surprise around it. He was not yet quite mad and she was not yet resigned. They were young; young to have believed that war was truly over and gone, young enough to dust off the residues of the pain and stand up again. He had returned from the land of the dead and defeated Voldemort when he first set the tone for their farcical encounter. He remembers it so well because of the fire. The fire that blazed around Hogwarts like a protection charm; what a scene that was.

The war had been over for hours now, and around them people have not yet finished burying their dead. The festivities were a solemn affair, at best, for wizards and witches of the previous generation have already celebrated the demise of Voldemort once, and they had been proven wrong before. Mostly, the crowd looked tired, watching the fires burn down to their ashes as all stood by silently, reverently. Night approached, and the debris that had been once Hogwarts gave the grounds an ancient, sacred feel. The earth stank of wet leaves and burnt wood. The fire blazed in the Quidditch Field, and in the backdrop, Hogwarts glowed with its embers. Harry felt nothing seeing those flame burn, only a great desire to lie back down on his bed and sleep until he was ready to face this new, daunting world. Voldemort was gone and he lived on. He searched for familiar faces in the crowd to share this strange new revelation with, and like a beacon, Ginny was there, huddling with her brothers and parents and looking grim but not consumed in hysteria. That was something Harry had always admired about her; she had never quite broken down, in all the years that he had known her. He walked over to her with such comforting thoughts in mind. Some thing will never change. She caught his eye and meeting him halfway, offered him a small smile.

“Ginny,” he said.

“Harry,” she said. He let out a small grin and Ginny’s smile grew a bit wider.

“Fancy a walk?”

“Not the best time to ask, but you always did have terrible timing,” she said, taking a quick look at the rest of her family. “Alright. For a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry said, all in a rush. If he did not get the words out now, he did not know when he would ever again.

Around them, Hogwarts was in tatters and the blazing bonfires flared across Ginny’s weary face. The world had crumbled and yet here Ginny was. Harry felt a wave of calm rushing through him as he looked at her, taking in her small frame and the wave of ferociousness she offered him. The night was short and he was so tired. He said in a reckless rush, “Ginny, marry me.”

Harry did not think much of the question back then. All he knew was that he wished to live, but he did not quite know how to live any longer after the war, and Ginny was there and whole, and Harry believed that Ginny would have the answers to whatever this new life may offer him. Ginny was safe, she was someone he could understand after this horrid night was over, and she was giving him a look of complete surprise that Harry worried for a second he had gone about this all wrong.

“Not right now, of course,” he hastened to add, as Ginny simply stared at him, lost for words, “Not…not even for a couple more years, at least. Just, just. When things have settled for a bit, when all this is…” He waved his arms about, trying to elaborate on the future that might be theirs, the future he had to offer her. “When everything is okay again. When we get out of school, you know? When we move on out of all this.”

Ginny smiled then, a sad, stilted smile she had never had before the war. It would be with her throughout the years, with a pint in her hand and a forlorn look in her eyes, and often at times, she would never quite snap out of it. She took Harry’s gesturing hand in her fingers. Her touch was cold.

“Oh, Harry,” she said. Her voice was as tired as Harry felt. “I don’t think we can all quite move on after this. But we can try. Later, when you’re better.”

And Harry had never quite been better since. And Ginny, wonderful, far-sighted Ginny Weasley, had known this the moment Harry appeared with his wild, haunted eyes and whisked her away.

What a pair they would have made.

So he says now, even after all these years: I’m sorry, I can’t.

And Ginny would reply: hush, have another drink, and some food. You’re ridiculous, at the rate you’re going at. Ron’s worried, Hermione’s out of her mind these days, and _I’m_ a nervous wreck just sitting next to you. She refuses his proposals that come forth when he is drunk, and later the apologies that come after. He rests his head on the dusty table, his head light and dizzy from the drinks. Ginny’s fingers card through his hair and he sighs. He closes his eyes and imagines that he is happy, that Ginny is happy, and the war never happened.

.

.

.

Malfoy’s days are predictable around Grimmauld Place.

He rises at an early hour and stirs a dreadful racket down the parlor, to which Harry awakes with a groan. They have breakfast and Malfoy takes great care in sniffing at the food Kreacher offers and takes pleasure in banging his cutlery about as he demolishes the food he does not eat. He stays in the library until it is time for his weekly Ministry inquires, which leaves him in a terse mood, ready to snap at the very existence that was Grimmuald Place and Harry Potter. He limits his excursions to the library and the dining room when it is required of him. Most of the time Malfoy is in his designated bedroom, doing god knew what. Harry finds that he does not much care. Malfoy sleeps through the week and leaves for his sanctuary manor on the weekends, and Harry enjoys two blissful days of a Malfoy-free library and dining room until it begins all over again.

Contrary to Malfoy’s consistent insults and accusations, Harry does read. He has nothing better to do these days, and he does not care to go out and face the hoards of cameras that accost him at every turn. He remembers how he once had poured down the magical theories when he first bought his books, knowing that he was a wizard and not just a freak, and with the same determination but lacking the same awe, he trudges to the Black’s library shelves to understand something of the magical world he had never quite grasped. Amongst his lists, he reads about werewolves and their infections, the history of Dark Lords, and the rise and fall of Dark Lords, the meticulous usage of Dark Arts throughout history, the Dark curses you can use on your worst enemies…he reads books that would normally have the Ministry hopping to its feet, conjuring up a search warrant to confiscate his possessions in a heartbeat. But he’s Harry Potter, and Grimmauld Place was Unplottable, and he was damn tired of the Ministry yapping on about what he could and could not do. So on days when the house was quiet, he would head off to the archives and curl up with the latest curses and Dark creatures, reading morbidly about old magic, wondering briefly about how he could have disarmed Voldemort with such base magic he had once wielded as a teenager.

It is here that Malfoy finds him one day, and when he looks up, Malfoy is suddenly there, perched up on one of the armchairs and studying him with cruel mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Who would’ve guessed,” Malfoy drawls, “that the Savior ever had an interest in the Dark Arts. Preparing to be the next Dark Lord, are you, Potter?”

“You’re the one that said I should read more,” Harry points out. Malfoy sneers.

“As if you ever listened to what I told you. Besides, the library is full of other safe books that you can dirty your hands on. Why don’t you busy yourself with the _nicer_ ones?” Malfoy mocks him like he is still a child and they are back at Hogwarts again, having nothing better to do than to insult each other about the state of their robes and the potions that (Harry) failed to simmer. It is nostalgic and petty, and such words bring a strange taste of bile in his mouth.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry says, and it had been a long, never-ending day, and it would soon be a never-ending night with Tom Riddle and Voldemort and Death, and such thoughts make him jittery and rash enough to snap. “I suppose I want to kill the next Dark Lord with some Dark spells. Yeah, Malfoy, maybe I want to become the next Dark Lord. What are you going to do, go wail about it to the Ministry?”

Malfoy’s face pales, but his tone is level and cold as he replies, “Just because you defeated one maniac, Potter, it doesn’t exempt you from the laws. Don’t think I’ve kept quiet about the trove of Dark artifacts in this house out of the goodness of my heart.”

“No, of course not,” Harry says, “You wanted to tinker around with them while I wasn’t looking. Because you’re really good at that, aren’t you?”

Malfoy snarls. In a moment, he whips out his wand, and Harry takes out his, and they are at a standstill, wands raised, eyes focused on one another, and something burns inside Harry, a brief, quick flash of rage, of excitement, of a seducing thought— _this is how I am going to die_ —that travels across his mind and throughout his body. The thought makes his hands shake and his lips twitch, and the twitch is what makes Malfoy lower his wand a little and roll his eyes.

“Merlin,” he mutters, “I’ve been saddled with a lunatic. Traded one for another.”

“Well, let’s see now,” Harry says, and he lowers his wand too, but not his smile, “I never made you get a Mark to prove your idiocy, did I. So that's still a point in my favor.”

Malfoy throws a sharp look at that, but he does not attack. He only makes a disgusted sound and turns, his feet stomping loudly out through the exit. His blood tempers down and he is back—back to his nothingness, his apathy, his boredom. The clock ticks on, and he waits to fall asleep.

He dearly hopes he would meet the child today. Tom Riddle with his malicious eyes who would await him eagerly. Tom Riddle, awaiting his death; what a beautiful notion.

.

.

.

He meets Death.

Not you again, he thinks. Death’s soft laughter echoes around them, and Harry rolls his eyes. They are once again wrapped in a thick fog and nothing is clear in his vision. He feels belligerent today and is not quite up for mind games. He would wake up if he could, but somehow the tactic that works so wonderfully with Riddle has never affected Death. The hooded entity speaks. Have you pondered on my words? Words that I have spoken to you the last time we have met, questions that I have placed upon your feeble mind throughout the years?

You already know the answer, why don’t you tell me, Harry says. Besides, I think your questions are crap and your presence is irritating. Are you asking me to go back to the past and kill myself? Because I can do that, you know. Just whisk me off to bloody King’s Cross and have it done with.

Death scoffs. Do you think that would answer my inquiries? I asked you why you came back and stayed alive; I do not intend you to set foot upon the land of the dead, Harry Potter. Think; use that brain of yours and answer wisely. You had a choice, and you used it. And so I ask you, and I shall ask again until I find the answer to my satisfaction.

And asking this helps how? Harry asks. Would this bring Teddy back? Would it bring anybody back? I really see no point in amusing myself with pointless rot, you know. I came back to kill Voldemort and you know that. I’m tired of giving you the same answers and you’re tired of hearing them, I’ll bet.  I’m alive but they’re all dead, and obviously I should sign myself into the St. Mungo’s mental ward to fend you off.

But you will not, Death muses.

No, Harry agrees wearily, No. Not until you tell me what you want. Besides your stupid questions. Because there is something, isn’t there? Even after all these years, there must be something.

You do not wish to get rid of me? I am, after all, a figment of your imagination—a remnant of a memory you desire to forget.

Harry snorts a little at that. Just because it’s in my head, doesn’t mean it’s not real.

An abuse of words once spoken from a wiser man than you, Death says, sounding amused. But true enough.

And Harry pleads then. He does not often, with Death, because Death is fickle at best and often laughs his requests as mere folly and fairy wishes. Harry knows this well. But this has not stopped him over the years, begging for Teddy, begging for lives lost, begging for a chance. It is one of those nights when he misses something deep inside his mind and he feels so unbearably hollow and _dead_. Perhaps it was the memory of his aunt the night before. Perhaps it was the sudden flashback of how Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, and the nagging thought of how he could have lived. If only. He says in a broken voice, but you know what I want. _You must._ You’re in my head, for the love of Merlin. You know, and so—

And so. I see, and I know, but I have told you time and time again…Death laughs. Harry begs like a child and Death laughs at him rightly for it. But foolish child, lessons have never quite stuck to your head unless the situation was dire and called for drastic measures. But, then. You have always been thus. Such is my burden to be tied down to your ill-advised mind. Let it be so, if you are desperate for the power that I may offer you.

Harry stands still. Breathes. Death had never given him anything, not in all the years Harry had asked him. Death had only haunted his mind and mocked him with his riddles, but Death is here now, offering _something_. His body is cold but his head is burning, just like all those years ago, and a sense of fear washes over him. He relishes in it greedily, for it is fear and not a void, and he will snatch fear and merge it with his rage and grief and joy, and now he only watches Death with his hovering figure, who performs an intricate movement with his thin hands.

You shall tread through your past that I would grant you. And you will be given…a chance, of sorts.

Death does not lose his gaiety, and Harry should have been suspicious. Surely he would have once, but by then he is on the edge of bursting at the seams, and he forgets the words of the old fable that once warned him against Death and his wily ways. He only tastes the anticipation that _something_ was about to happen and he would play a part in it all.

Death’s voice rumbles. Do not think that the choice bestowed upon you would allow you to change anything, child. Do not think that you shall achieve the things better men before you have failed in. Perhaps there may be small dents upon your arrival. Perhaps some events may move forth in quite an unexpected manner. It matters not. The past is entrenched and unshakeable, and shall always be so.

Death’s voice is a soft cooing by this time, lost amidst the howling wind that surrounds them, and his vison grows dark as he shakes, violently. The world around him tilts and swishes. The wind laughs and hisses in his ears, Death’s gentle voice a warning. Harry opens his mouth and screams. A high, laughing voice shouts along with him. A burst of green light, then red, and soon, all is black.

Death says,

You wished for it, Harry Potter. Let it be so, and you shall do well to remember your own fatal turn.

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.

.

Harry opens his eyes.

Death, many things he may be, is not a subtle creature. He speaks in such blatant hints, Harry knows what to expect with Death and his promises. Perhaps this is why, when Harry opens his eyes, he is not surprised to find himself attired in his school robes, clean and neatly pressed, walking through the corridor of Hogwarts. Ron is by his side, and he looks very young and innocent with his wide, excited eyes. _He is back._ He does not question, why in this timeline, but then he soon figures it out a moment later. The Sorting is about to start and he is young enough to create a rift in his past. He knows enough; he is experienced enough now. The choice is clear. He blinks.

“Alright, Harry?” Ron whispers next to him, “You were gone for a bit, you know.”

“Never better,” Harry whispers back, and it is so natural to feign the awe that Ron radiates. Ron gives him a wide smile and Harry follows suit. Ron is riveting with anxiety and masking it well. His voice is high and young; had they all once been so short and awkward in these walls that they would later defend with their lives? Oh, Hogwarts. His life is innocent as of yet in this school. Harry listens for a familiar voice, but it is in vain. His head is silent. He almost skips in unexpected joy. Be away with you, Tom Riddle! He smiles with each passing step when there no snide remark to disrupt his thoughts.

And now, here he goes again: the sweeping Great Hall, where a war has not been fought yet. The candle lights shimmer above him as the stone walls shelter the scampering students. Others stare at them curiously: the bumbling first years, ready for magical adventures and intrigue, perhaps a bit of dashing fun but no Dark events to haunt them in their lifetimes. Strange, that he should feel so safe here, walking down the line with his future Headmistress, Ron at his side with his mouth agape in wonder. It is less overwhelming than the first time; the sweeping Hall and its majestic features is now all too familiar in his mind, but he finds amusement in seeing the young heads turn about, their eyes striving to take everything all in at once. He takes in his peers, and the generation of younger witches and wizards who have known war only as a child. A few heads down, even Malfoy is looking a little awestruck with his grey eyes narrowed in what he now understands as delight. A bigot he may have been, but as of now, he is merely a child. Harry notes the way Malfoy holds himself, and he is surprised to notice how Malfoy is so carefree in his movements. The Malfoy he knows in his adult life is a Malfoy always strung tight, prim and set to attack. This Malfoy is anything but. And so are the others here; all too young to have known war and pain and death, basked in the false sense of security that no evil would disrupt their lives. And as he stands in the middle of it all, the whispers begin _, there he is, the Boy-Who-Lived_. With his newly brought wizard robes and his famous scar marking his forehead, a legend because he failed to die and vanquished a Dark Lord. The hushed words follow along his wake, eyes look upon him, a thin scrawny boy of eleven huddled along with the rest of his peers. Some will become his closest friends and others will only be too glad to watch him fall…

The hat is old and dusty upon his head when McGonagall calls out his name. Ron has already galloped off to Gryffindor, his face full of exuberance and relief. He grins at Harry and waves but Harry does not, not this time. Harry awaits the hat’s musings with a patient air, as the people around him titter and wait impatiently. He closes his eyes and is soon engulfed in darkness.

Back, are we? the hat speaks. But not quite, Harry Potter. Not quite.

This is a dream, Harry thinks, This is a dream of what could have been, what may have come hereafter.

Yes, all that and more. The hat is amused by his solemn display of words, and its old age is evident when it replies. But what will you change?

There are many things Harry would change, now that he has been given the chance. This is what he beseeched Death for, time and time again, the chance for him to prevent the war that would soon happen. It didn’t have to, his mind insists, if only he did not stumble across disastrous mistakes at the crucial moments. He knows better know, and takes care not to look in the direction into Quirrell. Not yet, not yet. He would be agile and silent in his first year, taking care not to show himself as an arrogant boy who embarks upon adventures with his friends. He would trust Snape, he would kill Quirrell, he would never let Ginny get hold of the diary, he would stab the diary at the first opportunity he would get, he would set Sirius free and make him happy, he would kill Scabbers, he would hunt the remaining Horocuxes, he would kill what would one day be Lord Voldemort, he would kill, and kill and kill. He would kill without any hesitation. This was what that war had taught him; he would embrace cruelty and bask in the darkness that lured him into his nightmares. Only then would he win.

What morbid thoughts, the hat says. I suppose you would like me to throw you into the nest of vipers. I see it all in that whirling head of yours. Run amok there, that’ll do you good. Perhaps it will deflate your head a little. Not every death had rested upon your tiny shoulders, boy.

Harry starts at that, but soon dismisses the point. No, that’s not important, he thinks, what matters is that it happened, and now I have the power to keep it all from happening again.

Oh, if time was as simple as that, the hat says. He sounds peeved. I see that you do not often heed the warnings given to you. Well, on your head be it.

Out loud, the Hat booms,

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Hall is utterly silent, and Harry takes off the hat. He sees Ron at the Gryffindor table and has half a mind to call this a joke and run off to the table he truly belongs in. For he was still a Gryffindor, wasn’t he? But he holds himself still and meets Ron’s shocked face steadily. Harry is not the first to look away. The light in Ron’s eyes fade a little, and Harry is suddenly aware that all eyes are upon him. But he is used to this feeling now. The wave of uncertainty is almost endearing and familiar by this point. He had been hailed as the wizarding hero for far too long, he muses, when the looks of nervous students and outright hostility amuses him more than anything else. Even as Ron grows pale and the Hall is left stunned, and even as Hagrid loudly gasps from behind and the Slytherin table slowly begins to clap, he knows, as he had not known before, that this was only one of the first deviating paths he would now have to take, the first of many decisions he would damn himself to. But it would be fine. It would be exciting, even, after all these years of doing nothing, and merely waiting for something to burst. It would be wonderful in a barbaric way, steeling himself for the war to come.

Slowly he turns, and meets the cold, fathomless black eyes of Severus Snape.

Yes, he thinks, and Snape’s face is twisted into a grimace, as he sneers at Harry from the high table, so on my grave be it.

Somewhere, in the far corner of his brain, a voice chuckles.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

There was a time when he had searched up everything he could about his old Potions master. He had watched the man die for a pointless cause when the war was just about to end, and his former professor suddenly found it perfectly fine to thrust a bundle of memories about his mother. Oh, he knew why Snape gave him those memories, and in the end, the evil bastard was no better than Dumbledore who wanted Harry to die willingly, only to await him with open arms in his brief stint at King’s Cross. Giving up those childhood memories that spoke of innocence and friendship, Snape was saying in his own sleazy way to trust him, despite their antagonistic past and their mutual disdain for each other. And Harry did, damning his eagerness to trust and accept anything that may help him win the disastrous war. He watched the memories and accepted his death (because he could do little else, it seemed), returned to the living, forgot how to live. Now what was left were the memories, and the uncomfortable, nagging thought that his mother and Snape had been friends once. He watched those memories again and again throughout the years, carefully combing through them, wondering for the hidden signals, the pivotal moment that would make him finally understand. Did Snape love my mum, he wondered. Did he want redemption? Would he have truly left me to die? Those were answers that Snape took to his grave.

Snape had never been for publicity (perhaps that is why he had detested Harry all those years, partly because of his scar and partly because of those outrageous headlines), although Snape craved recognition and honor like any sensible man. It was becoming hard to find the name Severus Snape on public records, and so Harry soon commissioned an apt biographer (not by the name of Rita Skeeter) to dig through Snape’s past. You could never take your grubby hands off other people’s privacies, could you, Potter? Snape’s voice, when it came unbidden, was usually snide inside his head, but unlike the other intrusions, Harry felt no need to maintain a conversation and simply brushed him away. The world needed its heroes and books of such heroes were in high demand at that time. Harry convinced himself that it was a business transaction, and the world deserved to know that there wasn’t simply a thick line slashed between the good and the evil; Snape had delicately balanced the two sides for a good portion of his life. Snape would be recognized as the hero he was, and then Harry would finally let his sleeping ghosts lie and wash his hands off the whole mess. He paid for the initial starting fees and met the biographer, who was puzzled as to why Harry would want anything to do with a former Death Eater who had been a spy, who could have also been a traitor.

The man’s past is very muddled, Mr. Potter, the wizard said hesitantly, I have his school records, by courtesy of Hogwarts (and the wizard, bless him, he gave a little cough that showed he knew how much Lily Potter would pop up in Snape’s early years) but the rest is very convoluted. He did turn into a Death Eater, and then he just disappeared. Then he was absolved of all charges by the late Albus Dumbledore. The wizard shuffled his notes, his eyes blinking. Make no mistake, Mr. Potter, as a writer who makes a living out of such fascinating subjects, Severus Snape is a very intriguing man, but, ah. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you invested in knowing this dead man? I understand he was your professor at some point. He spoke in hesitant tones, and Harry could appreciate how good the man was at his job, the right amount of pausing and the little pushes of encouragement. Nevertheless, the subtle poke did not fool him and he let his lips twist. I didn’t matter to him, he said, turning away and staring at the blank wall. There shouldn’t be any mention of me in that book. None at all.

But Mr. Potter, the biographer said slowly, I am under the impression that he had saved your life multiple times, over the years.

Harry did not say, he saved me because of my mum, you see, were it not for her I’d be a heap of rot under the Quidditch field in my first year and he would have been standing over my dead body sneering about my sticky end and whatnot. So I’m thankful, yeah, but I also know why he did those things and I’d like to come to terms with that on my own.

He said, Mr.—, as a competent biographer and researcher I am sure that you could find such stuff out on your own time without my help. He was surprised to find how his voice was flat and politely dismissive. Hermione would have been proud. She did not approve of him mucking through the past in the first place and this was at least one point he could endear her on. I went about it in a very detached and professional manner, Hermione, it’s about academic interest, see. When Harry had appealed to her with his good behavior, she merely shook her head. Let the dead lie, Harry, she said, and let the living move on. And of Harry had never taken Hermione’s most sensible advices to heart and so here he was.

The biographer held out his hand and Harry shook it, and in the course of several years an occasional owl flew to Grimmauld Place, and Harry was received with a bundle of personal entries, first drafts, and revisions with revelations that didn’t honestly amount to much. He crossed out unwanted events at every turn and in the end, the life of Severus Snape did not contain the name of Harry Potter.

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Severus Snape’s childhood was miserable and his Hogwarts years were isolated while his adult years were disastrous. Snape was shunned and rebuked at every turn and he held much rage inside him, rebelling against the institutions that sought to hold him, and later he was brilliant at what he did and terrible at how to go about it. He was a famed brewer but invented many atrocious potions throughout the war, he was a skilled duelist but showed no official records of Muggle tortures or killings. He was the godfather to Draco Malfoy and took care to hide his blood status, and if anyone doubted his heritage, no one had doubted his magical abilities and his sheer resilience and genius. Snape had no love affairs throughout his life and lived austerely after the war, and the only public records left were from Hogwarts with glowing recommendations from Dumbledore.

Harry read the records, the flimsy biographical information, trying to read between the lines and wondering what he was expecting to find. A shred of compassion, of human goodness that his mother had once known. Something reminiscent of the eager boy that Harry had seen in Snape’s memories. He wanted to pinpoint a turning point of sorts, a definitive event, and say loudly, oh yes, I see now. This is why you were friends with my mum. Because you had bravery and loyalty, and you loved my mother enough to die.

He could not find anything as such. It left him wanting and wondering.

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After the Sorting Ceremony and the Feast, they trot their way down to the damp corridors of the school. The dungeons are cold and gloomy even at this time of the year and he shivers involuntarily. The older years look at Harry uncertainly, not quite making sure what to make of him, and the rest of the first years are no different. They give him a wide berth and he walks undisturbed, head held high. Only Malfoy’s voice can be heard loudly somewhere in the back of the crowd, “Well, Potter was marked by the Dark Lord, after all, so I’m not very surprised. But he’s not a pureblood, and I don’t see him very cunning, do you, Crabbe? I wonder why the hat would go about…”

He isn’t bothered by Malfoy’s talk of blood and the slight rise in his nasal voice when he speaks of Voldemort, although he does wonder just precisely why his time travel did not send him straight back to the train ride at Hogwarts. He could have shaken Malfoy’s hand and saved himself all the nattering trouble that came with the pale boy. The _Handshake_ , as Malfoy always liked to referred to it, when he was sufficiently drunk enough and sentimental enough to slur at Harry. You could have saved me a lot of bloody trouble, Potter, by just shaking my damned hand. I would have still hated you no doubt, but at least I wouldn’t have been obsessed at your imminent demise. Harry would, at such times, roll his eyes and take hold of Malfoy and attempt to take his offered hand, only to have Malfoy pull away and crow, too late now, Potter! It’s all over and away and I’ve found better things to do than to make friends with the Savior. Malfoy was an intolerable drunk when he wanted to be. He snorts. Now, it is only the early years, when Malfoy is rightly boastful of his father’s antics and his grand old Manor. Let him be an idiot for a bit longer, then, surely Malfoy isn’t the important catalyst in this time. Malfoy was only important to him when he turned himself into a bloody werewolf, and with luck, this Malfoy would not suffer that rotten fate. The prefects lead them to the entrance of the Slytherin common rooms, and Harry takes a cursory look at the dark hall hung with dim glowing lights and the eloquent mantelpiece. A fire is roaring in the fireplace and older students are already lounging in the armchairs spread out in the long, winding chamber. The rest of the students wander about, while the perfects stand immobile and observe the excited faces with disdain. When the curiosity wans, they prattle on about house honor and house points and how the students should take care not to get on Professor Snape’s bad side or pay for the consequences.

He drowns out most of the speech and trudges forth along with the rest of his housemates, seeing his trunk stashed at the corner of his new dorm room. The Slytherin beds are not much different from the ones he was used to, save for the dark green and silver overtones. He frowns a little. He should feel tired, but he feels strangely energized.

If I sleep, would I wake up on the other side of the timeline? he thinks. Terror seizes at him. Death would not break down on his promise, surely; but the truth was, Harry had never been quite good at figuring out Death’s riddles and jabs over the years, and he couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t some trick that Death was using to amuse himself. But he just didn’t _have_ such vivid dreams about an alternate past. He had sullied tea with his enemies, or he had wand fights, or he died and had conversations with old Headmasters and ghosts. If this was a dream, Harry determines, Voldemort should burst into the room any time now. He sticks a hand to his pocket. The presence of his own wand is comforting, and very real. He relaxes a little.

“Potter.”

It is so endearing, Harry thinks, rolling his eyes as he turns and faces Malfoy in the dim lights. Malfoy’s voice is quite nauseating to hear when he was still eleven and doesn’t yet know the difference between what could be right and what was surely wrong. His lips are already curved up in an ugly sneer and ready for assault.

“Weasley didn’t seem too keen to take you in anymore, did he,” Malfoy says. He looks gleeful, his thin face positively radiating with malice. On one hand he already has his wand out. “Especially when you weren’t sorted into his dumb Gryffindor house. Not that it’s going to save you here.” He raises his wand. “I _did_ warn you Potter, that you’ll go down the same way as your parents had if you insist on making friends with the wrong sort. Think you’d listen to your betters in the future now, won’t you?”

Before Malfoy can act, Harry mutters _Expelliarmus_ under his breath. Malfoy’s wand shoots out of his hand and Harry grabs the offending object. He takes in Malfoy’s gob-smacked face, and the utter silence of the rest of the first years and deems it safe to smirk.

Harry, really, Hermoine’s voice sounds exasperated, Harry could imagine it all now. Technically, he’s a child and you should know better. You are an adult, for crying out loud. 

Doesn’t mean he’s not a git, he thinks, and to be fair, Malfoy never did quite grow up with the insults.

Out loud he says, “Did you just come up with that speech up on the train, Malfoy? Rather furious I jilted you, weren’t you?”

Malfoy’s face flushes. “You did not _jilt_ me,” he hisses savagely.

“I’ll also have you know,” Harry goes on, ignoring Malfoy’s words and allowing his voice to cool, “That your Voldemort was also a half-blood. Didn’t stop him from planning world domination and talking about blood supremacy now, did it? Blood doesn’t matter much, Malfoy. Magic does.” And as he speaks those words, something tugs inside his chest. The words sound familiar—but why? He feels that it is important; but as soon as he tries to figure out the mystery, his mind turns curiously blank. He gives out an inward shrug. It’s only the first day, he thinks, and yet everything is so easy and familiar. I’ll get the hang of it soon. I’ve always insulted Malfoy and now it’ll be just worse than before, because we’re in the same house and sleeping in the same dorms and—“Just so we’re clear, do I have to put up a protection charm while I sleep? I’d like to know my attackers beforehand, you see.”

Malfoy’s face, which had grown pale when hearing Voldemort’s name, flushes again at the light jibe in Harry’s tone.

“Think you’re brave, saying that name, don’t you Potter?” he spits, “At the reckless rate you’re going, I doubt you’ll even need to be hexed in your sleep. Someone’ll make a fine target out of you in the corridors one of these days.”

With the final word, Malfoy storms off to his side of the bed and pauses. He turns around and snarls, “ _Accio_.”

Malfoy’s wand twists out of his grip and snaps to Malfoy’s waiting palm. One of his housemates gasps loudly. Wandless magic? Someone whispers.

Well, Harry thinks dryly, let the battles begin, then.

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Sleep comes to him easily.

In this timeline, no Dark Lords swoop down to murder him in his sleep. Instead he revisits old memories that had happened in the immediate aftermaths of the war; Harry supposes that it’s only natural all the action would take place there, considering how, for the last few years, he found it a daily struggle just to leave the house. Until Malfoy and his werewolf incident, Harry had felt quite useless at large, dwindling away his Gringotts bank account. He is not surprised to find himself busily exhausting himself to his wit’s end in the early days. The years that follow fold inside his mind like a corridor, and Harry wanders about, until he stands at a familiar courtroom. He hesitates.

It is because the younger version of Draco Malfoy that Harry had met yet again was such a horrible boy. It is because there was a time when Malfoy could have been a decent person, and now that was never going to happen because he became a werewolf, and as of now he is a completely bitter and caustic arse most of the time. He needs to see a Malfoy that had, for a short time, allowed Harry to believe that the past could be put to rest. He needs a Draco Malfoy who remembered the war, had paid the price, and stood out resolutely to hear judgment. Well, then. Harry sighs. No point in putting it off. He enters the courtroom and the setting shimmers and soon clears out.

A few days after the war, Malfoy was tried for murder as a Death Eater and Harry attended his trial to speak against his imprisonment.

At that time, he felt it was the right thing to do, and Hermione and Ron had not countered otherwise. The Prophet was having a field day about the massive round-ups of Death Eaters in the first few days after the war, their headlines eager to inform the public that something was being done, that evil would soon be vanquished. The Prophet was all too eager to atone for past misdemeanours, as were crowds of wizards and witches gathered around at the front halls of the Ministry, chanting: away with Death Eaters, away with Dark Magic! Some saw Harry pass by and cried out his name and others tried to reach for his hand; he dodged them all, set himself to walk at a brisk pace. Donned up in his formal robes, he pushed through the solemn hallway of the Ministry and ignored the yattering journalists and the flashing cameras, making sure that his face was a complete blank as he headed downwards to the dungeons. He was the only one in the witness stand, and he eased into the high seating stalls with ease. The benches were full of curious bystanders, and they all pointed to Harry and the murmurs grew louder and bounced off the thick stone walls. He sat stiffly and did not look at the seats of the Wizengamot. He watched impassively as Malfoy was finally dragged into the court flanked by two guards a moment later. The trial proceedings had not been kind to Malfoy; he was gaunt and pale, his silver blond hair not set in his usual slick, and he staggered onto the chair before the judges. Malfoy was captured soon after the end of the last Hogwarts festivities, along with his parents. They were found to be packing their worldly possessions when the Aurors came with their warrant.

Here in the middle of it all, Malfoy looked defeated and it was not a good look on him, with his head hung low as he waited for the hearing to begin. The charges were bellowed out with great pomp and the crowd in the room nudged each other and hissed about the Malfoy Manor and Death Eater strongholds and Malfoy. Oh, that family, one witch said loudly, also knew his father was Dark, can never trust a Malfoy and a Slytherin. Look where they were in the First War and look at them now. Harry wanted to retort back to them, but this Malfoy was not born in that war, he didn’t really do anything really, well, maybe some shitty things sure, but we all make horrible mistakes when we’re young, don’t we? He remembered a flips of the wand, an unknown curse, and blood split in a girl’s bathroom. He shook himself and listened. Harry listened to them all and looked down at Malfoy’s lost look and Harry knew then that he was going to use the press and the goodwill opinion of the people and even his reputation as a war hero to get Malfoy acquitted.

The Wizengamot spoke its charges and they were eager to see Malfoy carted of to Azkaban. The crowd knew this, Harry knew this, Malfoy knew this, and Malfoy was looking back at Harry on occasion whilst the prosecution brought forth the charges, his grey eyes narrowed and suspicious. Malfoy was insulted at his presence and did not think that Harry had come to do him any favors. Harry did not let that gaze faze him as he stood up and delivered his prepared speech. The crowd hushed and Malfoy’s lips twisted into an ugly sneer, and his eyes were wild. Harry wondered then, did Malfoy truly think that Harry would condemn him? But he had never quite known Malfoy even then, and Malfoy would not have guessed what to make of Harry in those turbulent times. Malfoy would not be at fault for assuming the worst in him, the worst of the wizarding world so thirsty for blood.

So he spoke. He knew what he spoke of but he forgot how he managed to go through with his affected speech. His voice did not shake as he spoke of his captured moments in the Manor during the war, and he spoke of how Draco Malfoy had tried to save him and his friends, he spoke of Malfoy’s unwillingness to fight. All the while he kept a fake smile on, his hand gestures sympathetic and kept his eyes trained on Malfoy, who looked more and more bewildered as Harry’s testimony grew longer. He made Malfoy out to be a hero in an unfortunate war; Malfoy was the one who did not deliver Harry to Voldemort, Malfoy tried to set them free in the dungeons, Malfoy helped him look for the remainders of Voldemort’s soul, and during all those times Malfoy was eager to atone and pay penance. Throughout he did not mention Malfoy’s cowardice, his wavering, pitiful stance, his eagerness to survival at all costs. Such petty grudges Harry had learnt to let go long ago, at least in a public setting where it would do both of them no good.

“But Mr. Potter,” the old judge said slowly. He was a feeble, thin man, peering down at Harry with his watery eyes. “How should we explain the Mark? The Mark is a voluntary bond, and a vow sworn cannot be forced upon the wizard in question. Mr. Malfoy here has taken it willingly, and had carried out his crimes knowingly. With intent.” His old eyes were saying to him, let this trial go, let us imprison this boy, let us offer this scapegoat to dry. Harry did not let those eyes fool him and denied those pleads. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair and bared his forehead, showing his scarred forehead to the old judge who flinched, to the crowd who gasped, to Malfoy who sat stiff.

“Voldemort gave me this scar when I was just a baby,” he said calmly, ignoring the predictable gasps that came with the once Tabooed name, “Would such a man ask his followers for their intentions before he Marked them? He asked for complete obedience or death, and even if they gave him their loyalty he killed them at his whims. That Mark was just as forcibly placed as this scar, and Draco Malfoy did not wield his own free will when he swore his allegiance.”

He was proud of the way he spoke. Hermione had helped with most of the speech, and practiced his stuttering with him. It’s the jargon, Hermione, he had said at one point. It’s the dry tone of it all, all the formalities I have to address. He would have been just as glad to say, look, the war is over and I didn’t see any of you trying to fight arduously in the war, why don’t we move on. Hermione had huffed, well, we can just hope you won’t be the next Minister of Ministry then. But as of now, his speech flowed with ease and strength. It had the crowd shifting uneasily, and the old judge sighed, rapping his gavel several times for silence. He said wearily, “Well then, we have heard the defense and the prosecution. Let us vote. Those in favor of convicting Draco Malfoy?”

A dozen hands were raised. The judge was not amongst them, and Harry allowed himself to let out a steady breath as the judge called out, “And those in favor of clearing the accused charges?”

He did not need to count the hands raised; Malfoy was set free and the dungeons soon cleared off after that, everyone’s face etched in confusion and wariness. They had expected a circus and bloodshed; instead they got a rebuke from a lanky teenage who made them all secretly shameful of their own private actions during the war.

“Mr. Potter,” Malfoy’s lawyer said breathlessly, reaching out to shake his hand. His eyes were very wide and his lips wore a tight smile; he did not look as if he had a decent sleep in days, “A grand speech you gave out today in the courtroom, very grateful, I am sure that my client—”

“Potter,” Malfoy said coldly. The lawyer stopped speaking at once, and Harry descended down from the bench and Malfoy stood up from his chair. They stood, face-to-face, Malfoy wearing a look of fury and befuddlement.

“You couldn’t have written that speech,” Malfoy sneered.

His lawyer coughed delicately and waved a sheet of paper. “Now, Mr. Malfoy—”

“Hermione did,” Harry said easily. “Otherwise I would’ve just thrown a fit at the judges and they could have locked me up right along with you.” When Malfoy didn’t answer to that, he fumbled around in his pockets. “And that’s not why I came. Here, take it.” He handed over Malfoy’s wand. It was a comfortable hold, but he didn’t need it. It wasn’t his. “Been meaning to give it to you sooner, but you weren’t allowed visitors during the questionings, so.”

Malfoy gritted his teeth. “Potter, why on earth would you—no, look, Potter, we have never been friends and will never be, and I detest owing you any debt of some sort, especially in a world that is so eager to kiss the hem of your precious Gryffindor robes. You must want something. You wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have—”

“Yeah, well, I’m not you, Malfoy, aren’t I,” Harry snapped. The calm veneer he had adopted and held all throughout the trial broke loose and he was soon resorted to shouting at Malfoy. It felt vigorous but more than that it felt _right_ , as if hurling spite at Malfoy somehow made this world okay and worth still living, “Yeah, you’re a git at the best of times and you’re a spiteful bully, and back at Hogwarts you were an insufferable prick, but that doesn’t mean you were a murderer and a pureblood racist shithead—well, okay maybe you were, but the point is—”

“I’m not,” Malfoy interrupted sharply, just as Harry was about to take a breath.

“I—what?”

“I’m not a pureblood racist shithead, Potter,” Malfoy said stiffly, as if it pained him to repeat such foul words. “At least, not anymore. I’m trying not to be, at any rate.”

He was momentarily at a loss for words. “Well…well, good,” Harry said dumbly, “Yeah, see there. That’s why I spoke out for you, because you’re still a jerk but that doesn’t mean you deserve Azkaban.” He paused, wondered if he should say words he didn’t mean, and decided to hell with it. He hesitated a little before adding, “I’m sorry about your parents. I would have spoke out for them too, if I could have.”

“Yes, well,” Malfoy said tiredly, but his malice was gone and he even quirked up a thin smirk, “You could have waxed poetry about my young adolescent innocence and got away with it. But the public wants a hanging Potter, and now’s a good time to round others up, my parents included.” And a raised eyebrow that spoke: come now Potter, we all know there was no love lost between my father and you.

 With that, Malfoy walked away with his lawyer following at his wake. Neither turned back to look at him. In the end, Malfoy did not thank him for the trial but Harry supposed that was only fair, as he had never quite apologized for having almost murdered Malfoy. And he did not hear or see his former nemesis for years, until the incident with the werewolf and Malfoy was convicted, yet again, for having bitten an innocent witch, as a crowd of people stood by horrified. And then Malfoy came to his place, and insulted him at every turn, and it was like the trial had never happened and they were back at Hogwarts again, resorting to childish sneering across the corridors.

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At breakfast, Harry watches Malfoy with tired eyes. Malfoy is quite fastidious with his food, taking care to take small nibbles and slicing his eggs and toast very delicately. There is a slight buzz around them, and many students are eyeing Harry as if he would burst up and throw Dark curses at any moment. Harry, quite honestly, has no time for such attention, and pokes at his own platter of food. His appetite is still null.

What would it take for Malfoy to become a half-decent person in this particular time? Harry had woken in the early hours curled up in his Slytherin sheets, half-goggled and dreadfully exhausted, wondering for a moment where he was. Back in time. So it wasn’t quite a farce after all; or Death was being creative and sending him into a never-ending chain of events to show him what could have been. He had pinched himself for good measure and yelped. Quite real enough, he thought gloomily. Lethargy was starting to set in, and this is where he is now, watching Malfoy declare the rotten state of Hogwarts food that were fit for servants and house elves.

I could curse him, Harry thinks morosely, we could fight, I could insult his father. He would scream at me and I could show him all the horrible curses that Voldemort would throw at him. Or I could just go up and say how taking a Mark is bound to hurt and he would be bound to regret it. I could convert him to our side.

And Harry lets out an incredulous chuckle at that and looks down at his plate. The whispers around him grow.

And the whole school now thinks I’m mad as a hatter. Rotten for them.

Just then, he turns his head and sees Ron hurriedly standing up from his side of the Gryffindor table across the Hall. He seems to be in a hurry, already surrounded by Neville and Dean and Seamus, laughing at something or the other. His insides clench.

“Regretting you’re not joining your friend Weasel over there, Potter?”

Harry looks back to see Malfoy watching him, a glint in his eyes. His housemates look at him with the same coldness; he has been mooning over at the enemy house, after all. He doesn’t care to defend himself and shrugs a little.

“Oh, shove off, Malfoy,” he says, and there’s no bite into his words, but Malfoy stiffens up all the same. This Malfoy clearly hasn’t yet become used to Harry’s dismissive ways, and if Harry only cared to remember, Malfoys did hate to be ignored. Harry often found that out the hard way, with his broken teacups and split tea. Nothing magic can’t clean up, and Harry stands up before Malfoy can retort back a scathing insult. “Really, Malfoy, contrary to what you think, I really don’t want to watch my back for the next seven years.” If I even stay that long, he mentally adds, because he doesn’t think he could go through another seven years of schooling again. He hopes that Death would grace his presence one of these nights so that Harry might throw a tantrum and get his way again. “I’m sure we’ll get along swell if you just learn not to insult my parents and talk about how noble your family is, yeah?”

And because there was only one answer that this particular Malfoy could give at such an outrageous request, Harry fled the Slytherin table before the outburst could come.

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“Ron!”

Ron knows his voice. Harry can see it from the way his back tenses. He takes a moment to compose himself and turn around, however, and by that time Harry is quite near him to exchange half-nods with Neville and Dean. Neville nods back hesitantly, offering him a nervous smile, while Dean only looks at Harry with bland curiosity.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks.

Ron’s eyes flicker over to his newfound friends, and Harry finds it childish, endearing almost, and Harry wonders, has Ron always been this awkward and young? But soon enough, Ron steels enough for a confrontation. Harry can glimpse the man Ron would grow up to be: reckless and brash, but unwavering in his courage. Yes, Ron would never have been sorted to any other House.

“You guys go on,” he says. “I’ll catch up. Just, er. Let me talk to Potter here.” And Ron nods a bit firmly, and Harry pretends that it doesn’t hurt, the way Ron calls him Potter as if it were natural, because it _wasn’t_ , the Ron he knew would never call him that.

He swallows.

Focus, he snaps. This Ron is an eleven-year-old and he publicly told you that he detested all Slytherins. He holds nothing against you personally if you don’t let him.

He waits for Ron to be left alone and then adopts a tone of forced levity.

“So,” he says, “does that mean you’re not my friend anymore?”

And that simple sentence is all Harry needs to say before Ron loses his composure, his face once again blushing horribly. He stammers a bit and shifts his feet while looking everywhere else but for Harry. He waits, patiently, his heart a steady thump thump thump, as Ron tries to express his prejudices and his blossoming friendship with Harry just the day before, and succeeds in only making incoherent noises. He barely manages to gasp out, “Well, I don’t know, Harry,” and the words come out so helplessly, and Ron looks so miserable that Harry feels sorry for ever putting him at the spot. “I mean, are you evil? Because the hat must’ve seen something there, otherwise you’d be in…” Ron bites his lips and Harry doesn’t try to stop his voice becoming dry as he says, “Well, we don’t know that, do we. Ravenclaw is a bit too much for me, but I could’ve worked with Hufflepuff too, I guess.”

Ron doesn’t seem to find this particularly funny, and he only manages to make a funny noise in reply.

“Ron,” Harry says, exasperated, “Why would this change things?” And Harry is quite frankly, dying to know. He doesn’t need Malfoy; he needs Ron. He needs the first friend he has ever made and met in the train all those years ago. He did not expect such things to happen to him back then, and suddenly it had; a strange, wonderful world that did not exist before a giant came along and told him he was a famous boy beyond all measure, but also a world held with uncertainty and anxiety. And along came Ron, with his big robes and that dreadful rat, chatting him up as if everything was simply normal and fine. There was no way to explain how well they had fit that first time, the warm tingling feeling Harry shared with Ron in that cramped compartment. It was Ron who had shared his first delights with, Ron who had shown him the finer details of this wonderful world, Ron who had offered him a home in the summers. Ron, who was now looking at him with a wariness that made his hands clammy. Whatever may come, he thinks, you must be able to face this.

“B-because,” Ron splutters, his face turning red, “You’re a Slytherin now! And me, I’m a—” He gestures to his own robes and his scarlet tie furiously, as if willing his hands to point out the irreconcilable differences between them. Harry watches his former friend with a sinking heart, but he firmly quashes down his dread. This is a different Ron, after all; a Ron who had not yet taken down a troll with him, stood by him through his Parselmouth ordeals, screamed hoarsely at Sirius to kill them all before he could kill Harry. And yet, Harry reflects wryly, Ron was also a right git at times, who had failed to see reason when the world did not suit him well. This was a Ron who could shun him for misplaced glory, a friend who detested the sidelines, the boy who had always too little attention heaped on him and would slowly come to resent Harry for being yet another boy in the spotlight. This would also be a Ron who would then seek redemption. He would come back to apologize, admit his mistakes like the Gryffindor he was. This would be no different. He looks at this living Ron now, and waits patiently.

Ron tries, and fails to express his agitation. He finally bursts out helplessly, “But all wizards in Slytherin are Dark! They become—become…”

“Death Eaters?” Harry asks gently, and Ron jerks his head a little and his mouth gaps.

“I mean, not that you would, ‘course,” Ron says, but his face looks uncertain.

There would be no conclusion drawn from this encounter, Harry knows. They would need a troll, or a near-dying experience to make even a spark happen. He lets out a little sigh. “Let me know if you find out,” he says dully, and turns away. Ron does not try to stop him.

.

.

.

In the grey, bare room, Death enters and finds young Tom Riddle twirling a stone ring languidly. His eyes are gleaming hungrily as he observes this intruder. No tea cozies and tables adorn the room, but then of course, such things had never quite existed in the first place. Riddle does not look scared to see his worst fear hovering near him; on the contrary, he allows a small smile to grace his lips as he watches the hooded figure draw nearer.

He has gone, Death speaks.

So I sensed, Riddle answers easily. He plays with the ring and allows Death to see it for what it was. He feels Death shift in annoyance and lets his lips curve higher.

I told him he shall not succeed in his ambitions, Death says. But then again, I have been proven wrong before. There has not been a Master of Death for centuries, and not one quite so young.

Riddle shrugs. His aloofness sets Death on edge and he allows his cloak to billow out.

And you? Do you think the boy would obtain what he seeks?  
Oh, no doubt he will try his hardest, Riddle says pleasantly, his eyes growing dark with amusement. Harry Potter has always been quite stubborn if nothing else. But not even he can change what had already come.

As I have told him many times, Death murmurs. But, then. We shall soon see.

So we shall, Riddle says.

They wait; somewhere the clock ticks on, and the fog deepens.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

On some days, Harry imagines that he meets a young Tom Riddle. He has the pleasure of of declaring all the Horocuxes that have been destroyed, takes particular satisfaction as he recounts just how they crumbled under the forces that were darker than the pieces of Riddle’s soul. Harry would see Riddle’s pure shock radiating, and Harry would whip out his wand at the moment of the Dark Lord’s weakness. Riddle would not struggle; he would bare his throat and whisper, so this is the end, is it, in a quiet, forlorn voice that Harry almost feels sorry for him.

And yet other times, Riddle only smiles, devastatingly beautiful and cold. He patiently waits for Harry to say his piece and only then does he whisper, but then, I have you, my little Horocux. His eyes shine in an unnatural hue, and it is now Harry who stumbles back, only Riddle reaches out his arm to steady him. His grip is firm as he drags Harry closer, and Riddle’s wand is pointed at him knowingly. It is a pity that my other self had never known this, Riddle says. Imagine what could have changed. You need not have died, for one. What an utter waste, Harry. Riddle clicks his tongue as his eyes roam. Under the appraising gaze, Harry feels like a lamb to the slaughter, meekly surrendering to something he does not remember. He twists out of the grasp, and the hand that holds his arm swiftly moves up to clutch his neck.

Harry chokes.

No matter, it’s all too late now. Riddle’s eyes blaze. I was never the one to mourn past mistakes. All the pity for you, Harry Potter. You could have lived. You could have begged, and Lord Voldemort could have shown you mercy…

Harry gasps for air, but Riddle’s hand closes around him and his vision blurs. Riddle continues to smile, and smile, until Harry finally cannot see much more.

Even in his imagination, Riddle is never easy to vanquish.

.

.

.

Days pass.

Classes are a bore. The teachers are wary of him, Harry sees, from the way they flicker their eyes to his scar and then to the color of his robes. Only Professor McGonagall does not waver when she calls out his name, only giving a curt nod in recognition when he raises his hand. 

Snape pretends he does not exist.

He had counted on many things before the first Potions class, all that ranged from a spectacular dressing down in front of the entire class to a simple demonstration that aimed to humiliate his lacking talent in Potions, and he had devised scenarios in which he would get Snape to trust a gangly eleven-year-old that had the face of his childhood nemesis and the eyes of his former best friend. He revised the Potions textbooks the night before, squinting his eyes at all the fine print in the formulas and bemoaned at the absence of one Hermione Granger. He had seen her often at mealtimes, but she was usually hunched alone with a thick book, her face always looking quite grim and determined. Harry wanted to go up to her and introduce himself: _Hullo, my name is Harry Potter, do you want to be study mates and you could teach me the finer arts of Potions? I’m sure we could be the best of friends in no time._ Except that entire conversation reeked of Slytherin intentions and Harry did not care to have a repeat of a lecture on Dark wizards and evil innateness. So he gritted his teeth and shouldered on for the rest of the week, waiting, _hoping_ , that Snape would be willing to be fair to his own House.

But Snape does not call on him, even after his sneering, dramatic speech that Harry has a hard time taking seriously the second time around. Snape barely looks in his direction, and he is left to stare at Snape’s swirling robes somewhat offended.

“Potter, if you’re going to look dumb, at least be useful about it.”

Without comment, Harry numbly picks up the batch of herbs that Malfoy throws at him and begins to crush them mechanically. Malfoy looks at him with utter distaste, before muttering about how his partner was a complete waste of space and at this rate he would rather be partners with Crabbe, Merlin help him. He listens to Malfoy’s mutterings, and he is more befuddled than ever. Why was Malfoy sitting next to him in the first place? He chances a look at the Gryffindor table and sees Ron and Neville looking utterly confounded and Hermione busily trimming down her ingredients alone. Harry frowns at that and looks back at Malfoy, who eyes the cauldron speculatively. 

“Malfoy,” he says. “Why are you here?” We hate each other, he does not say. Malfoy hadn’t used any magic, wandless or otherwise, ever since their first night and left him alone for the most part. He had ceased the taunts (or perhaps Harry was too busy with his master plan of getting Snape to notice him) and so Harry pretended that Malfoy mostly did not exist, for that matter.

Malfoy scowls. “I’m not daft, Potter,” he snaps under his breath, “I’ve seen the way you cast that spell when we first arrived. And I’ve also seen your hideous glasses buried under our Potions text. _Do_ get rid of that Muggle trash, by the way, it just pains me to look at it. So I’d thought you had some semblance of potential inside that thick brain of yours, but clearly not, you’re obviously a beginner at this and— _what are you doing_?!”

Malfoy’s sudden screech brings up the entire class to attention and Snape turns around sharply to pin Harry with a nasty stare. He flinches inwardly. Oh, silly him, to want that git’s attention in the first place.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Malfoy?”

Snape’s footsteps thump across the thick dungeon floors as he swiftly makes his way to their table. Harry had thrown in his finely crushed roots into the boiling cauldron and now is Malfoy wearing a face of utter panic as he stutters.

“He—threw the dittany roots first, before the—”

“This’ll make them merge more smoothly with the rest of the ingredients,” Harry points out calmly.

“That’s not what it says in the book!” Malfoy backs away from the cauldron with an apprehensive look on his face, and the sudden fear shining in his eyes makes this experience very surreal. Harry is mesmerized by it. Malfoy is scared of an exploding potion. It is what any boy of eleven would truly fear, were there no Dark Lords to come back alive and no Death Eaters ransacking his home. Harry cannot hide his grin.

“…As Mr. Malfoy had eloquently said,” Snape says slowly, and his smile falls off in an instant, “Mr. Potter. You would do well to explain your failure to read and follow _simple_ directions.” _You simpleton._ Harry hears the undertones well.

Snape’s voice holds the same vile scorn he had shown Harry while he was alive; the black, glittering eyes are a clear indication of his clear distaste of this very situation. But he also knows that Snape is holding back, for there is no mention of his celebrity status, his thick head, his scar, nothing about his father (as of yet). Snape is looking at a Harry Potter who was placed in Slytherin, and he is coming to terms with this new conundrum, just as all the other professors have done, with their uneasy eyes and false cheer.

So Harry allows himself a polite smile this time, and answers back pleasantly, “I know that’s what the textbook says, Professor, but I had thought that since the properties of dittany is more quickly absorbed before the lionfish spines, it wouldn’t have done anyone harm to change the order a little.” He pauses, wondering if that had even made sense (for Potions, first year or not, has never been one of his stronger qualities), and adds sensibly, “and besides, dittany wouldn’t explode. They have soothing qualities even when the plant is rubbed in its raw form.”

“Not when it’s mixed with salamander blood,” Malfoy hisses, still a few steps away from the bubbling cauldron. “Which is also in the ingredient list, you dimwit!”

Harry gives him a thin smile. Are they really going to do this? “And the effects will be diluted with honeywater. Which you already poured in the cauldron minutes ago.”  
“Mr. Malfoy, that will do,” Snape cuts in, before Malfoy can retort back yet another way to prove him wrong and Harry would only return an infuriating smile. “Mr. Potter, as…pleasing as it is to have a student who deems himself above such simple rules, you are not here in this classroom to debate the written directions. You are here,” And Snape taps his wand sharply once, and the bubbling potions disappear immediately, “to follow rules. You may experiment in your spare time, and save Mr. Malfoy a heart attack. Is that clear?”

Harry stares at Snape’s beady eyes. You hated the standard potions textbooks too, he wants to protest, you made up your own formulas, you wanted to blow up cauldrons, you were a reckless git, and I forgot just how much of a prejudiced bastard you were.

But he is older now. Gone are his baser instincts to snarl and shoot back a witty retort to a professor who may land him in a painful detention. He fixes up an innocent smile at Snape and nods slightly.

“Of course, Professor,” he says, and his voice is so pleasant and fake that for one moment it reminds him of someone who had also used his charming words to his advantage (a young, dashing boy, handsome in his looks, ambitious in his goals, a certain raven-haired prefect who masked his true intentions with a bland, careful smile), “I’ll be careful in the future.”

Snape only sneers at him and moves on.

No points are taken off, but that does not mean anything in this world, not when Harry is a Slytherin and Snape could still hate him and continue to favor his own damn House. Harry glares at his retreating back.

 _Coward_ , he thinks spitefully, but does not quite dare to voice this out.

.

.

.

He had imagined the meeting to go something like this:

Snape would choose him to vent out old hatred and raw emotion on the first day of class, he would try to bring down the Potter boy a notch, and he would ask snidely, so what are the full properties of a bezoar, Potter, and the rest of the students would flip their textbook pages nervously and await their turn with dread, but not Harry, oh no, because he had forced his thick head to absorb his Potions lessons, all the way to his seventh year in a week and not even Hermione would have done that, so he would have been ready to reply with a winning, knowing smile, why, Professor, it is the stomach of a goat, it acts like a antidote to most potions but not to Basilisk venom (pity that, he would add blithely, just to have himself cloaked in a mysterious air) and are used in the preparation of antidotes to common poisons as such. And Snape would scowl, somewhat confused and irritated, and he would ask yet another question, adding, it is so good to know that Mr. Potter does not think studying above him, and Harry would say with all friendly intent, well, I think I take after my mum, you see, I heard Potions was her best subject. And Snape would stare at him at lost for words and Harry would not drop his eyes and then Snape would, well, he would—

Harry thinks tiredly, then he would assign me detention and later when we are alone he would rant about how unworthy I am compared to my mum and take points off for sheer cheek in his class and then reward the lost points back to Malfoy for simply existing. And I would leave Snape confused and angry, and that is not why I came back, not if Snape is going to hate me again and start saving my life at the same time. I have to prove that I am trustworthy, and that I need Snape on my side, and I need to kill that lurking menace inside Quirrell’s head before the year is out so that Voldemort would not come back. I also need to hunt his Horocuxes and time is running out already and I can’t do everything when I’m a bloody eleven-year-old. What was Death thinking, sending me to a timeline when I can do nothing useful and only get into Snape’s good graces by studying pointless potions ingredients?

“Fuck this,” Harry says aloud, and by this time most of his classmates are used to him saying random words throughout the day. They leave him alone to mope in solitude.

.

.

.

In Defense class, Harry sits at the very back of the class, and smiles when Quirrell talks about vampires with his poor, stuttering accent. Quirrell does not meet his eyes often, but when he does, Quirrell offers him a very weak, timid smile, and Harry returns it with his teeth bared. Quirrell averts his eyes immediately and talks with rapid haste about his trips to Albania and how Dark creatures often roam in dark forests, unbidden and unmanageable.

“Professor,” Harry calls out, because just this once, he cannot help it, and besides, this was a much better choice than hurling a killing curse at the turban, “you must have been very brave, sir, to have met and defeated such Dark creatures.”

“What’s your problem now, Potter,” he can hear Malfoy mutter from two rows away. He ignores this and smiles a beatific smile at the wide-eyed Quirrell, who does not seem to know what to do with his hands.

“Ah, no, P-Potter,” he mutters, “No, I-I mean, surely, y-yes. I h-have met, a-and conquered several—” and at this he coughs and waves his hand about helplessly, as if that would quell his coughing, “several c-creatures. But mind y-you don’t go off h-hunting on your own, e-eh, Potter? You already h-have taken down the m-most frightening D-Dark Lord of our g-generation.”

His stuttering is off, Harry notes, ducking his head into a modest nod. His hands are clenched tightly together and his eyes are burning. He wants to kill me now, I’ll bet.

Oh, Voldermort. Harry thinks. If you only knew. And he strokes his wand, waiting.

.

.

.

After yet another night, he falls into a restless slumber and,

Malfoy screams.

He starts, because it is such a strange, primitive sound that Harry hears out of the normally composed boy. But the scream does not sound like a child’s, it is older; this is the Malfoy who is currently imprisoned in Grimmuald Place. He is screaming with wild abandon. The sound fills his head and soon the walls and the house, it seems, is filled with the feral howling of Malfoy, and Harry wants to do something about it. But he cannot; he tries to reach out, thinking, if only I could touch him, he would stop. He wouldn’t want to seem so uncouth around me, at the very least. He would cease. But something stops him—a mist, a fog, a thick, swirling whiteness that entraps his body—and he is forced to stand and bare witness as Malfoy charges down the hallway of dusty Grimmauld Place.

He soon sees that Malfoy is not alone.

Two Aurors grab him by the arms, and Malfoy screams again, and screams until his voice is hoarse; his eyes bulge and his hands scramble to take hold of the wooden floors. Malfoy breaks free of the grip and crawls away from the Aurors, and his legs are pedaling furiously down to the end of the hallways where there is

a body.

His body.

Harry stares.

He is lying on the floor, and Harry involuntarily touches his arms, his neck, his face—and yes, he is here, but he is also _there_ , lying at the end of the hallway and he is crumpled up in a heap. Am I alive, he wonders, Am I still breathing?

Malfoy screams, but this time he hears the words, the desperate sounds of a plea that beseechs grief and innocence,

“Potter, POTTER!”

He had never quite heard his name spoken like that. He had never heard Malfoy speak his name with such emotion. He did not expect Malfoy capable of such emotion.  

The Aurors draw nearer and one of them raises a wand. Thick cords snap out in midair and they bind Malfoy’s body, and Malfoy can now only scream repeated words that Harry cannot make sense of.

“I didn’t kill him, I DIDN’T KILL POTTER! POTTER, WAKE UP! POTTER!”

“It would be wise, Malfoy, if you don’t make a scene,” one Auror says coldly. “It would be most beneficial if you come with us and…cooperate.”

Malfoy turns wild eyes onto the Auror who had spoken, and he chokes. Harry has never seen him quite disheveled and wild, and he watches the scene unfold, bewildered. He looks at his unmoving body and Malfoy back again.

But of course he didn’t kill me, Harry thinks, I’m not there. I’m back in time playing enemies with the eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy.

But then, Harry realizes, if time is changing and I am manipulating past events, why has nothing changed? Why is Malfoy still my ward?

He feels a coldness creeping onto him.

What is going on, he thinks.

“I didn’t kill him,” Malfoy says, and this time it is a broken rasp, and Malfoy is begging now, “I didn’t, how could I—I couldn’t have—”

“Malfoy, we all know what you are now,” the other Auror cuts in, his voice no less cold and judging, “What we had been once. Now, Harry Potter here may believe you’ve changed for the better, but I assure you, a good portion of the wizarding folks beg to differ.” Here the Auror smiles, a grim smile that speaks of past wrongs and retribution and true justice. It is a smile that suggests he had not quite forgotten the wars that ravaged the country just a decade before.

Malfoy stares at the two imposing wizards, and takes in their uncompromising gestures, their terse stance all too ready for attack. He understands all this and more, and he reacts back in the only way he knows how. His eyes fill with fire; he matches their hatred with his own rage, and they are at a standstill. Malfoy looks like a murderer, baring his teeth and looking savage. His Mark is showing, Harry sees. One Auror’s eyes flick to the ugly dark tattoo and his lips pursue. He looks back to Malfoy’s face and seems to find what he is looking for.

“Ah,” he says softly, “I know that look. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, Malfoy.”

Harry does not see them take him away. His vision is eschewed by the thickening smoke and he coughs, as his hands try to grapple onto something. It is fruitless, and as he opens his mouth to yell Malfoy, don't take away Malfoy,

he awakes.

He opens his eyes. The room is silently save for a deep snore.

He throws off his bed covers and nearly tears the drapes off his bed. He stumbles to his feet, his heart beating fast, and scrambles over to a few beds down and with his heart beating, he walks with unsteady steps towards another bed and jerks open the closed curtains, shaking the shadowed lump sheathed by thick covers, until they move and he sees—

“What is the matter with you, Potter?”

Malfoy’s voice, so young and thick with sleep, is annoyed at him. No rage, no anger, no hatred—only irk at having been jolted awake in the middle of the night, and Harry does not have time to be thankful of that innocence. He is still shaking as he stares at Malfoy’s pale eyes, and he manages to choke out,

“Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Your left hand. Give it to me.”

Befuddled and still very much vexed, Malfoy obliges almost unconsciously, muttering that he must have a very good reason for this sudden intrusion. So barbaric, Potter, did you have a nightmare about your dead parents? He does not answer to the jibe, and yanks the pale hand nearer, rolling up a sleeve of Malfoy’s nightgown and he cannot suddenly breathe.

“Potter, if you’re going to just molest me while I was asleep, you—”

“Shut up,” Harry says, with the same harsh tone Malfoy had used in his dream, “Just shut up for a minute, Malfoy, I’m trying to _see_.”

Malfoy looks at him, and down at his arms and his irritation melts away and is replaced with—well, Harry doesn’t know, actually. He is horrible at reading Malfoy’s facial expressions, back then and even now, and Malfoy is giving him a very complicated look as Harry glares down at a pale, white wrist.

Unmarked.

His arm is unmarked, untarnished, white. It is not pure, because god forbid in any universe and time that Draco Malfoy can ever be called pure, but at the moment it can be said that Malfoy is just a boy, and that no Auror, righteous or otherwise, could ever think it justifiable to use such a tone with him. Harry lets out a sharp breath, aware that his eyes are burning, and slackens his hold.  

Malfoy does not bother to yank his wrist free, and his hand thumps on the sheets. They are left staring at each other, Harry wants to say, yes, Malfoy it was just a stupid nightmare, it was a world where you became a Death Eater and made stupid mistakes that you are paying for even after ten years, and it is a world that turned you into a werewolf and left under my custody, and it is a world where I could have saved everyone from a Dark Lord but somehow it never occurred to me to have saved you because we were never friends. Perhaps we never will be.

He tries to speak something that would make sense. But Malfoy beats him to it.

“Why this arm, Potter?” Malfoy whispers, and he curls his right arm over his left, and strokes the bare skin where a Mark would be in the upcoming years. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

At this age, Malfoy knows where the Mark is to be placed, and he touches the skin almost reverently, with a touch of trepidation and eagerness, and he glares at Harry as if to dare speak of the deed that will happen to him. Harry stares at how softly Malfoy touches the skin, how he seems to almost want the Mark, covet it like a new toy, and Harry it seems, can do nothing but watch. Can do nothing but speak. To beseech him.

Malfoy, he wants to say, Malfoy, I know terrible things that would happen to you and I do not want them to happen to you because I saved your sorry arse quite a few times now and it would be shame for you to disregard all that and go frollocking with your Death Eater cronies once again.

But he does not have it in him to be flippant of the future to come. He cannot.

“If he comes back,” Harry says instead, and his voice sounds far away and tired, “And I won’t say that name, because you’re going to think I was just being full of myself if I do. So, if he—or, no, _when_ he comes back. He’ll come back more powerful than his first rise, won’t he. Your brilliant father must have told you all about him, I’m sure. Great bedtime stories about those good old days, he’d have said. And he’ll come back one day, and your blasted father will be with him in a heartbeat. You think you’ll be prancing about in your newfound status and the world will be a better place for it. But if nothing else, remember this. Remember it well, Malfoy. I defeated him when I was just a baby and he died by his own foolishness and he will meet his future end in the same manner. He’ll be just as arrogant and vain and fail to learn from his mistakes, and I’ll defeat him again and again, as long as it takes, really, because I’m a reckless shit like that. And I will win, but by that time I’ll be too exhausted and drained to have saved you from your own stupid mistakes.”

So, Harry thinks but does not speak aloud, choose your side wisely, so that this time, I might be able save you and save us all such pointless despair.

He walks away before Malfoy could answer, and crawls under his sheets. He closes his eyes and sleep comes uneasily.

.

.

.

Yet another gloomy day in his house, Harry remembers. They had nothing to do but brood in their mutual company and he was miserable and twitchy. Nightmares, he knew. He sat in the kitchen chair poking at his breakfast scones that had gone cold and Malfoy sat across from him, avoiding his gaze. The library was flooded just yesterday night while they were trashing about in their beds with their respective demons, and Kreacher was surveying the damages. There was nothing to do but engage in polite converstation. So he asked,

Do you ever dream about the war?

It was raining all day and house was cold and dreary. Malfoy was tapping his fingers on the table and the sound had grated on his ears. He did not comment on Malfoy’s erratic behavior and instead waited for the right time to speak. Both had not yet touched their teas.

Do I dream of it. Malfoy rolled the same words back to him, slow and clipped. Of course I dream of the war, Potter. We all do. Why, did you think that being the evil Death Eater that I am, I wouldn’t dream of the Dark Lord? Malfoy’s voice rose, and Harry wanted to say, wait, that isn’t what I meant. But he had never been good at defending himself. He let Malfoy’s anger take over the small room, and his voice grew unsteady with each words he spat.

You might have been on a hero’s quest to find the Dark Lord’s soul pieces and destroyed them one by one, Malfoy continued on, but you didn’t have to meet his lordship until you had to. You met him on a battlefield, Potter. Where do you think he held court in the meantime?

Your Manor, Harry wished to say. He stayed silent.

The war took away everything from everyone, Potter, it didn’t just ruin your sorry little life. It took away my—

and Malfoy stopped, taking a sharp intake of breath. He continued on in a calmer voice, though no less bitter. Harry filled in the gaps of things Malfoy does not mention: it took away my family, my childhood, my life, the things I stood for, the things I held to be dear and true.

Malfoy continues. At least you managed to save the fucking world. At least you can sleep at night thinking about the hoards of people out there waiting to worship the ground you walk on. At least you can have a life, if you’re so inclined. For all we know, you can go ahead and be the next Minister of Magic, and people will be throwing flowers at your feet!

Malfoy concluded his tirade with a sharp bark. His fingers stopped their tapping and there was only a quiet hostility after that, as they stared at each other, one wary and the other mocking.

You really don’t know your worth nowadays, do you? Malfoy mused. Pity that. You could use your fame to better uses.

Harry shrugged. Malfoy sighed. They were back to their mutual silence.

That was not what I meant, Harry would have liked to say. I meant. Do you dread about the war that is hopeless and dreary and never-ending like I do. You back at Hogwarts, coming to utter _Crucios_ and Dark curses so naturally, and I on the run, hunting Horocuxes and feuding with my best friend, and thinking, this war, what if it never ends? Do you dream of that vast hopelessness, thinking wildly, what if this is the only life we will know until we all get killed? Do you dream of your own end, on what could have been, and how we were all so close to dying.

Harry did not offer. He did not probe his answers and Malfoy did not try to explain himself.

Your generation, Potter, another voice back then, spoke inside his head, full of disdain, every one of them are sniffling brats and this Malfoy heir is no exception. What does he know of war, when he had stayed holed up in his pitiful room day after day, moping about? What does he know of death, of pain and blood and losses? What, for that matter, do you? Voldemort laughed. At least his father believed in something that could have made him great. What did you believe in, Potter, when you walked to your own death to avenge me? Did you only think about dying a martyr? War is not about that, boy. It is about fire, and destruction. It is about annihilation.

Harry remembers his own apathy and Malfoy’s exhaustion. He tries to forget Voldemort’s condescension, and avows himself each day, not in this timeline. Not in this timeline, when I know what will happen and I have the means to stop it.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The professors cannot do anything to him in classes (perhaps with the exception of Quirrell) when Harry is a bright, thoughtful boy all too ready and willing to please. He does not volunteer out the answers in class (he will give that dubious honor to Hermione) but his spellwork is tight and careful, his answers carefully framed, and the professors take note of how modest he is after a praise. They begin to see him with new eyes and Harry could hear their thoughts whirling for the first few weeks, but why is that boy in Slytherin?

“You would have done well in Ravenclaw, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick says to him one day in Charms, his eyes bright with excitement as Harry successfully manages to levitate a desk across the classroom, “Clearly you have the brains for it, I daresay—and you said that you were raised by Muggles?”

“Yes sir,” Harry says, and flicks his wand, ignoring Malfoy’s gagging sounds; the desk lands neatly at a corner of the room, “But it’s nothing really. I read up on the schoolwork before school started. I didn’t want to fall behind, you see.”

“There, spoken like a true Ravenclaw!” Flitwick squeaks, “I wonder, I wonder…if we sometimes make mistakes with the Sorting…”

And so it was with Sprout, who declares Harry a natural at Herbology when he can properly identify the properties of a Mandrake (“Covered in your second year, Mr. Potter, but I’m sure five points to Slytherin wouldn’t hurt!”) and with McGonagall, who continues to treat him fairly but now with a tinge of warmth and admiration. Throughout he retains his polite façade, taking care to reign his temper when it least suits him, shoving the snarling voice that is threatening to burst his head, when when when.

Be patient, he thinks, cross and tired after each and every class, Be patient, we still have time.

You’re being pointlessly obtuse about all this, mate. Ron’s voice comes to him, unbidden, and he closes his eyes for a moment, his fingers coming up to massage his temples. He grits his teeth.

You try to live your life again and try to stop everything from happening. And your younger self isn’t helping that much, thanks ever so kindly.

The real Ron, childish and maddening Ron Weasley, has taken to avoiding Harry, although it was no secret that the redhead often watches him when Harry isn’t paying attention. Ron is a Gryffindor after all, and Harry has perked up his curiosity. Especially after their first flying lesson.

The flying lesson, Harry thinks sourly, _was not supposed to be an incident_. He had not wanted to try out for the youngest Seeker in a century at this time (and he doubted that Snape would even bend the rules even for him, as Slytherin was the strongest contender for winning the Cup) and the best way to do that was to stay put on the ground.

Malfoy, of course, had other ideas. As soon as Madam Hooch was out of the way to tend to Neville’s broken arm, Malfoy was quick to seize his opportunity.

“Look what Longbottom’s got!”

He groaned. He could not help it; Malfoy was not only a git, he was an _unoriginal_ git at that, and he was tossing the caught Neville’s Remembrall up in the air, to the delight of his fellow cronies.

“Give it back, Malfoy.” Ron, already fuming and red, marched up to the forefront to face off the blond boy.

Malfoy really used his Seeker reflexes for all the wrong reasons. Harry sighed.

“Or what, Weasley, are you going to buy him a new one with your pocket money? Would have to sell your dirty old rat for that, won’t you?”

Malfoy was clearly having a good time with the attention, and Ron seemed to think about doing something rash, from the way he fumbled inside his robes to take out his wand. He stepped up before Ron could cast a disastrous spell.

“Give it up, Malfoy, you don’t even need the ball to remember your own childishness,” he said.

“Shove off, Potter,” Malfoy spat. He has also taken to avoiding him after Harry had cornered him in the middle of the night, but Malfoy has never been the one to step down from a fight either. “It’s not your concern.”

“It is, if you’re disrupting the class,” he pointed out.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Malfoy’s eyes turned towards him, and his face was alit with mockery. “It’s not enough for you to be the Boy-Who-Lived, is it, Potter? No, you’d have to be a Ravenclaw about all this, or worse yet, a Hufflepuff…”

“Nothing wrong with being a Hufflepuff,” Harry said.

Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically as the rest of the Slytherins made gagging noises. “Nothing wrong for the Boy-Who-Lived, it seems,” Malfoy mocked. In daylight, Malfoy’s face was casual and light, as if nightmares and solemn warnings from Harry Potter could not possible touch his carefree insults. “I think you’d be having second thoughts on that. If you want it so much—” and Malfoy was about to jump up his broom, his legs easily swinging over one side, “—you should—” and he was not going to take out his wand out in time, damn his stupid big robes, “—come and get it—”

“ _Accio!_ ”

Immediately the ball zipped towards his outstretched palm. Malfoy did not act very taken aback, although he looked irate; for the rest of the class who have not seen their first confrontation play out, it became a different story.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he heard Ron sputter from behind him.

Oh, you know, once you try facing a dragon in a week’s time and you don’t fancy being burnt to a crisp, it’s a good motivation for you to learn the Summoning charm. And then after that, the wandless thing just rolls off you like a charm. Harry didn’t say, and merely rolled his eyes at the fuming Malfoy.

“This is very beneath you, isn’t it?” Harry tried for a cajoling tone he would have once used with Teddy. Teddy, you’re a big boy now, you should know not to vex Kreacher when he’s in a foul mood. (Oh Teddy, and Harry slammed the thought shut before he had a chance to go there. Teddy is gone, he is not yet born, and he will not go and waste pointless tears on a life that he could save.) But Malfoy seemed to know the undertones of his message and his eyes narrowed as he took out his wand.

“Hexing you isn’t beneath me, Potter. I’ll do you and Weasel both while I’m at it, what do you think of that?”

“I think,” Harry said, drawing out the syllables purposefully, and as a warning, because Ron was fidgeting behind him, he could just feel the wave of aggressiveness that was Ron, “that would be a very stupid idea. Considering.”

“Afraid of a little detention?” Malfoy smiled, and it was just a smile of course. It was the same nasty smile Malfoy had been wearing all his life, a smile before a foul word about his parents, a smile before a hex, a smile before he saw the Snitch (and failed to catch it, ta, Malfoy). It was a smile that would later turn predatory, wolfish, perhaps, and Harry had always been a bundle of dynamites, just waiting for someone to push the right trigger so that he may explode at a moment’s notice.

He saw the smile and thought of a battlefield. He saw, and was reminded of a different Malfoy, a different setting, a war long gone. He did not _think_ , that was the point.

He was faster with his wand, ruthless with his spells.

A bang shot out from his wand, and thin cords wrapped around Malfoy, the same cords he had seen in his dreams. He was the Auror and Malfoy the helpless victim, ensnared in the coiling ropes that had burst out from his wand. Malfoy immediately began to resist and Harry looked on dumbfounded, wondering why he considered it vital to entrap this harmless boy. Hadn’t he had nightmares about Malfoy being taken away?

It was in the smile, Harry would later justify himself. I thought Malfoy would attack me, it was out of self-defense, so I won’t be sorry for it. I won’t.

(Potter I didn’t kill Potter, Malfoy’s voice rings out; he slams that voice down too, more viciously than the last.)

“Potter, let go,” Malfoy snarled, and Harry snapped back to his senses and pretended that this was what he had been aiming for all along. “Really, I would have expected a hex, but you really fight like a damn Hufflepuff, don't you? That hat is obviously senile, putting you in with our kind.”

“What is your kind, Malfoy,” he said, and his voice held a certain flatness that made Malfoy stop struggling for a brief moment, “ones who sided with Voldemort in the First War?”

There was an even louder gasp at the mention of the name, and Harry bit his lips. It wasn’t an act of bravery or recklessness, he thought, suddenly feeling very old and weary around a bunch of real first years who were only just beginning to learn magic for the first time. He felt the fight seep out of him, thinking with a tinge of hysteria, what am I doing with children, why am I trying to pretend I am normal and engaging in my first flying broom lesson? I should be sprinting off to Dumbledore at this point, screaming about the existing of Horcruxes. Why am I not?

Oh, he knew why. He knew why he was only counting on the sympathy of Snape and not the others, not Dumbledore, certainly. The old wizard would look at him kindly with his blue eyes and say something mysterious, no doubt, and he would not offer any answers but he would ask him to shoulder on. He would preach of love and forgiveness and acceptance and quite frankly, Harry did not have such goodwill in him right now.

So he let out a slow breath, he waved his wand, and Malfoy was free as he could be, his hands and feet anchored to the ground, panting, looking up with Harry with a malicious look in his eyes.

“You’ll pay for that,” he spat.

“Will I,” Harry said, and he pinned the other boy with a cool look, and turned away.

Ron was right there behind him, and he was looking at Harry a little gob smacked, mayhap a little betrayed. His face was red as he struggled to find the words he wanted to say, and Harry waited, with the patience he did not feel; but after all, this was Ron, who would consider Harry to be a friend any day now. Harry could only hope.

But Ron only whispered: “I thought you told me you didn’t know any magic. In the train. Said that you didn’t know anything about the wizarding world.”

Harry did not answer, because at that moment, Madam Hooch came strolling back to the flying field again. She said, well I’m glad no one was throwing hexes while I was gone, one can never know with your Houses, and Parkinson was about to open her mouth, perhaps to talk about Harry’s stint, but Malfoy shoved her lightly and muttered something in her ear. The rest of the class quickly averted their eyes and they resumed the flying lesson.

Harry ignored Ron for the rest of the week, as did Ron, but that didn’t mean Ron wasn’t staring at him from across the Great Hall.

“Looks like you got yourself a Weasley admirer, Potter,” Malfoy sneers now, and he had acted like a big ponce for the past week, rubbing his sides whenever he met Harry in the common rooms, talking loudly about how even Boys-Who-Lived were not exempt from school rules about harming other students, and the school governors will hear about this, no doubt. To which Harry had said with utmost patience, it was a defensive spell, Malfoy, as your dear father would clearly know, and besides, trust me, if I harmed you, you wouldn’t live to hear the tale. Perhaps not the latter. But he had patiently dodged Malfoy’s antagonism because he knew that would be the golden ticket to fire up Malfoy even further.

Harry ducks his head and pokes at his lunch, frowning slightly. Ron was an idiot, Harry thinks, if we only have a little chat. If only he’s not such a biased prick. But he is, and Ron has yet years to grow, only Harry does not think he could wait that long, does not know when he will suddenly be whisked away to his own timeline. Death has not been haunting his dreams as of late, ever since he came back to the past; not even, Harry suddenly realizes, Voldemort or Tom Riddle. He frowns at that and tries to remember the last few dreams. Malfoy. Malfoy in the past, Malfoy captive, and other tidbits in Grimmuald Place, conversations with Malfoy that Harry had forgotten until now. Do they matter so?

He swirls his head and looks at Malfoy in the eyes. Malfoy, in his mid-rant, stops and looks back with Harry, taken aback at the sudden attention, recovering only a second later.

“Are you done contemplating your fame, Potter?” he sneers, “Because I’ll bet Weasel there is just bursting to wipe your feet if you’d only let him…”

Crabbe sniggers next to him.

“Malfoy, if you’re feeling so tetchy around me, we could always duel and have it done with,” he says in a bored voice, “No reason why we can’t. Unless you’re scared, of course.” I’m sure you are, he says with his eyebrow.

Immediately, Malfoy straightens up and makes sure everyone in the vicinity can hear them. “Well, well. It seems like Potter wants to duel. Tell me, Potter, did your Muggle relatives even teach you how to duel in the proper manner?” And in a softer voice Malfoy adds, “Midnight. In the Guards chamber. We’ll see who’s scared then.”

Oh, Malfoy. And he shakes his head and grins, refrains himself from reaching over and tousling Malfoy’s prim blond hair. Because, _really_. If Malfoy is going to be a complete twat every time in his lifetime, at least he could be adorable about it. Harry can only hope.

Ignoring Malfoy’s jeers for now, he looks towards the Gryffindor side of the table again, just in time to see a very familiar bushy head girl running out of the Hall.

Ron is laughing and shaking his head.

Harry sees his mouth move: that girl, she’s just bonkers. No wonder she doesn’t have any friends.

He suppresses an urge to stomp over to Ron and shake him furiously, opting to shoot a glare in his way. Ron as a first year is very stupid, he concludes. The troll is not even here and there Ron was, wrecking havoc. At least he expected it out of Malfoy.

Oh, fuck. He stands up. Forget the sidelines. I can’t play nice, waiting for Ron to see reason. And then later, back in my own life, I’m going to remind him of every instance he has been an utter git to me in my life, best friend or not.

Mate, you’re forgetting the times when you went bonkers too, Ron’s voice echoes dryly inside his head, but he furiously shoves that aside. It was his head, he was allowed to be biased, and besides, he was the only adult here stuck inside a child’s body trying to make do with childish mind games.

He marches over to Ron’s side of the table, where he was still talking about the look on Granger’s face, I mean really, someone should make her see reason—

His tirade is abruptly cut short when he realizes Harry is standing a few feet away from him. Their side of the Gryffindor table is instantly hushed up; no one, it seems, knew about the tentative relationship Harry had with Ron (met him on the train the first time; we traded off some sweets; Ron told me about the wizarding world and we fended off Malfoy; I got sorted in Slytherin and Ron doesn’t know where I stand, and if I put it like that, who’s the idiot, Ron?) if the wide, curious eyes fixed upon him were any indication. Ron frowns at him.

“Something I can help you with, Potter?” he says curtly.

And that does it. For the first time since he came here, Harry opens his mouth and out comes a burst of frustration, of raw anger that Harry feels Ron is completely justified in taking, because, Ron Weasley, best friend or no, is no better than a dunderhead at this moment.

“You’re an idiot, Weasley,” he says, “and not only that, you’re a prejudiced blockhead and too thick to even know it. I don’t even know why I bothered, but I hope you spend your time in the library trying to think up all sorts of creative apologies for that girl you just made cry and run off. And to me, but I guess I’m not picky, since I already knew you were an idiot.”

Ron sputters. He does not back out from his glare.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter,” Ron says slowly, as he tries to regain his footing. His ears turn into a horrible shade of red. “But don’t think just because you’re somebody famous, you can just assume—”

“Oh, Hermione just ran off crying, and you were laughing at her,” he cuts in, “so, yeah, I assumed. And what does this have to do with me being famous? You were all for me being famous before I got sorted myself into Slytherin. Still waiting for you to snap out of that shock, by the way. Who wants to bet it’ll be till the end of the year, at this rate?”

Ron flares up at his remark, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment to blast him off with a piece of his mind.

“You, I—you lied to me!” Ron shouts, and he stands up from his seat, pointing his finger at Harry, his eyes wide and furious. “You made me look like a bloody fool, you did, telling me all sorts of lies about you not knowing anything about magic, not knowing about our world, and I bet you were laughing behind my back when I was trying to tell you stuff, you—” and Ron lowers his voice, breaking out into a hissing whisper, “ _I shared my mum’s_ _sandwich with you_!”

Gone is his momentarily delight in riling up Hermione, their future and mutual best friend; gone is his misgivings about Slytherin and Harry; gone are the tentative looks they had built up to this time. It all comes crumbling down, with Ron’s shame put in the spotlight and Harry staring at his friend’s face, feeling weary with it all, thinking sadly, oh, Ron. Ronald.

“I wasn’t making fun of you on the train, you know,” he says quietly, when Ron did not look as if he was about to add anything anytime soon. “And besides, I don’t think you can fault your mum’s sandwiches. You mum should be a brilliant cook, with all the sons she has—and no, that wasn’t an insult, you’re taking it the wrong way.”

You always take things the wrong way when you feel you need to defend yourself, he swallows back. Ron, you massive idiot, maybe I should have said that better.

Perhaps it is best, he thinks, turning his heel back and walking away with a heavy heart, if he does not speak his mind in this world. There is too much that he knows, too little time for him to allow everyone to figure out everything on their own. He would hurt someone, at the very least; at most, well…

he is afraid that he does not have the patience to wait. He fears his own impatience; it might disrupt the past that he had once known.

Horcruxes, he tells himself firmly, find the Horcruxes, destroy them and for god’s sake, let everything else put to rest. You are here to prevent a war from happening.

And maybe keep that temper down, too, Hermione reminds him.

Oh, hush, he says, I was defending your honor there just now, no need to have a go at me, too.

Very gallant of you, Harry. Now go find me in the library and charm me off with that awkward bravery of yours.

He can somehow hear Hermione’s smile in her words, and abruptly and violently, he misses her, his Hermione, the girl who had once cried in the girl’s bathroom and ended up not shedding a tear during Teddy’s funeral when Harry had needed her the most.

How quickly they have all grown. How he could have not, after the war and Teddy.

He shoves this all aside and breaks into a sprint.  

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The library is a quiet place to be during lunchtime. He finds her easily enough, in a small alcove near the Restricted Section. Hermione had often studied in that small corner, because to her, the place had felt exciting, forbidden even, for it was only a few steps away from the books that students were not allowed to study. Think, she had said on more than one occasion with her eyes gleaming, think of all the knowledge in those books, and to think we can’t look at them freely except by explicit permission from a teacher!

Ron muttered to him, I swear, she’s going to come up with a mad scheme to get a professor to sign every title slip there is in that bloody section. Harry had nodded in his agreement and Hermione had just rolled her eyes at them muttering about how three students would get faster permission slips than one. Big goals, Hermione, Ron had yawned at her and gotten a book thrown at him for his troubles. Maybe Lockhart will sign you all of them. You never know.

She never got around to doing that, of course, War happened, the end of schooldays and childhood happened, and everything was put on hold. After the remains, nothing was every quite picked up properly and placed in the right order.

But that world did not happen yet, Harry keeps telling himself, and he finds a whole and beautiful array of bookshelves, and at the small nook, Hermione.

 She is done crying, but her eyes are still red as she turns her head and squints at him. A moment passes before she speaks first.

“…Potter?”

She says his name with caution, and so he forces himself to swallow down his bile and approach, one step at a time. He is in a different house, and they have only met once on the train, she had been an insufferable know-it-all in his memory that first time, and she…well, he does not know what his first impression had been. He can only guess.

“Granger,” he says. As soon as the name pleasantries are out of his mouth, she jumps to the cutting issue.

“What are you doing here? Did you—did you follow me?” She says this with such an accusing tone that has not changed with her age, and he bites down a smile. “I’ve seen you looking over at our table a couple of times, you know. You’re not very subtle.”

“No, that really isn’t one of my best qualities,” he agrees easily enough, and this sets Hermione’s eyes flaring up with suspicion. “I was worried about you. You were crying.”

She is not reassured by his soothing tone.

“And that concerns you, how?” she asks coldly.

He shrugs. “We met on the train, I know you,” he points out. “I thought…well, actually, I didn’t really think, I just followed. I thought Ron had said something nasty.”

Perhaps it is the way he is easily slipping on his affable mask as he had done multiple times to his professors. Perhaps it is concerned look that promises her no harm. Harry does not quite know. But Hermione scrutinizes him, and when she finally speaks he feels like he had passed some sort of a test and feels strangely vindicated.

“He said that I should have been sorted into Ravenclaw, the way I’ve been hoarding my books around,” Hermione says, “And I told him, not that it’s any of his business, but the hat was considering me for Ravenclaw, but it obviously saw something in me to be sorted that way, and then Weasley laughed at that and mentioned you—” here she breaks off with an embarrassed look, but Harry set her at ease with a grin.

“I had the hat debating between Slytherin and Gryffindor myself,” he says easily. “But I made my choice with it.”

“I—so did I,” Hermione looks surprised, but she doesn’t pry, for which he is grateful, “but then, I was thinking, maybe the hat did get me in the wrong House after all, and Weasley wasn’t helping much, with his horrible mouth…” She trails off and her eyes start to water again, but she stays firm, shaking her head rapidly. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” she mutters. “According to Weasley, from what I’ve heard in the common rooms, he’s so convinced that everything you do is an act. Especially after our flying lesson. You are quite good with your spells, you know,” she adds in, somewhat enviously. “I don't think we’ve even learned that yet, and I’ve been looking through all our textbooks since then.”

Oh, Hermione, Harry thinks. Never change, Hermione.

Aloud, he says, “Sod Ron. Well, maybe not completely. But until he gets his head straight and actually comes to apologize to you.”

Hermione starts at that and looks at him strangely. “What’s it to you?” she asks slowly.

Her wide gaze throws him off for a moment, and then he lets out a grin, shaking his head. He wonders how to put her into words.

You are wonderful, do you know that? You are the brightest witch of our age, and you wield magic like it is nobody’s business, but you are also brave and loyal, and never once have you doubted me and left me behind. Not even Ron could claim that honor, bless his stubborn ways. I would be dead without you now. Should I remind you of our first year, when you saved me with your calmness and aptness for logic, or the second year, when you stood by my side was I was mocked as the Heir of Slytherin? Or no, why don’t we remember how you had a Time Turner (and really, Hermione, double lessons?) and saved Sirius from the Dementor’s Kiss along with Buckbeak. Or fourth year, when you practiced the First Task with me, even when Ron was a huffy bastard and the rest of the school was so sure that I was a fraud. See how each year you did something for me, and I could never repay them back. Let’s skip over to seventh year, that awful, wrenched year, when you hunted down Horcruxes and you were miserable without Ron but you were still there, like an anchor to uphold our mutual fear and anxiety. And later on, you were tortured and Bellatrix, that foul bitch, you denied your very existence, and yet you still persevered, you still had the fight left in you, whereas after the battle I was only a wreck. You were there to pick up the pieces, and you glued me together throughout the years. You were resilient, you didn’t give up on me. I wonder why that was. I often said to you, I’m not one of your pet projects, Hermione, I’m not a bloody house elf. You don’t have to save me. And you would return my stupid, idiotic gaze with sheer determination, Harry, of course I have to, otherwise you would kill yourself trying to save us all. And you were stronger than me in so many ways, Hermione Granger. Sometimes I wish I had that same drive, because some days, before all this, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I still don’t.

I wonder if you can help me here, where I feel very alone and angry and lost. Already I feel depressed, wondering whether I could do this all again a second time. The war, it’s catching onto me again, you see. I have dreams about Malfoy and the trials, and I’m afraid that soon I’ll be dreaming about Teddy again.

“You’re a brilliant witch, Her—Granger,” Harry says, his voice trying to make his friend understand everything inside his head. “Ron is an idiot, never mind him.”

Hermione looks at him seriously, far too seriously for any girl her age. Harry wonders when precisely Hermione had grown up, whether she had always been mature and righteous because it was in her very nature.

“Well, of course he is,” Hermione says with a watery smile. She juts out her chin. “But I also know that the rest of my classmates don’t think very well of me and it’s true that I speak what’s on my mind, but it’s because,” and here she still hesitates and she gives out an uneasy look at Harry and he responds with a quick reassuring smile, “well, I’m a Muggle, and imagine what everyone would think when I’m falling behind. I don’t want them to think that at all.”

“In what world would Hermione Granger be falling behind?” he says dryly, and quickly adds, because Hermione is giving him a bewildered look that asks him in what world _did_ he know her, “besides, my mum was a Muggleborn. She was brill at Potions, is what I heard. Being a Muggle really doesn’t define your magical abilities, I’ll have you know.”

“I know.” Hermione gives a small shrug as if it doesn’t bother her. “But what I know and what I feel are completely two different things.”

“Then you’ll have to continue to think that way until you truly being to feel it,” he says earnestly.

“Oh, Potter,” she says, but now it is with a certain fondness. The twinkle is back in her eyes. “Do you really think? That’s such a…child’s way of thinking about the world, isn’t it?”

“I’ve learned that sometimes, a child’s perspective helps,” Harry says. “In more ways than one.”

She smiles at him tentatively. He grins back at her and sticks out his hand.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s start over. My name is Harry Potter and I’m in Slytherin, but in no way should this stop us from being best friends.”

“Best—” Hermione snorts, shaking her head. “You’re such an odd boy, Potter. I mean, Harry.” She puts out her own hand and shakes his. Her palm is warm, and she gives him a small smile as she does so. “I’m Hermione Granger, and I’ve read all about you, of course; you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century…”

“You don’t say,” Harry says, and laughs.

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Here is a dream that Harry soon forgets, one night in his quiet Slytherin dorm:

 

Harry dreams about Malfoy dreaming about Tom Riddle.

Malfoy is in the grey, bare room and he steps out, haggled and wary, wand in hand.

Tom Riddle is there, sipping his tea and smiling.

Oh, good, Riddle says, you’re here.

Who are you, Malfoy snarls, and his eyes are sleep deprived and wild. He looks worse than Harry had last seen him. Another look confirms it: Malfoy is wearing grey pinstriped rags, nothing that Malfoy would have worn voluntarily. He had seen such robes only once before in his third year, when he was meeting his godfather for the first time.

Malfoy is in Azkaban, Harry thinks dumbly.

Never you mind, Riddle says, still smiling. His eyes are anything but. We’re in Harry’s dreamscape, you see, and you’re here as a guest.

Potter? Malfoy waves his wand as he turns around, inspecting the area with a sharper focus. This is Potter’s dream?

No, this is Potter’s dreamscape, but _your_ dream. I suppose. Riddle’s patience is cut shorter with Malfoy, Harry observes. Riddle had never quite shown his temper around him, if he cares to think about how he treats Harry. Riddle is looking at Malfoy with clear distaste, although he is barely masking it with false pleasantries.

He’s not even offering tea, Harry notes with morbid amusement.

I thought he was dead, Malfoy says with a harsh voice. I saw him—lying down—

Oh, he is far from dead, Riddle says. But barely. How are you enjoying Azkaban by the way? No Harry Potter to save you this time, I’m afraid. He’s indisposed at the moment. In your words, of course, and not mine.

But not dead. Malfoy’s voice comes as a question.

No, not quite. Riddle agrees.

Malfoy’s wand splutters without a warning, but the spell does not quite manage to hit Riddle. Riddle still fakes a dodge, his smile growing wider and his eyes colder.

You cannot throw off spells in this room, Riddle says, Unfortunately. One of those little rules we laid out, I’m afraid. Otherwise we would have been too busy trying to kill each other, and there wouldn't have been any time for a decent conversation. We’ve had quite a few since those ground rules. Civility never goes amiss.

Malfoy scowls and lowers his wand. We?

Harry and I. He often visits here, you see. Before his little mishap. But nevertheless. I’m sure he will return soon.

Riddle cocks his head. You’re only a stand-by here, young Malfoy. Don’t let it get into your head.

Malfoy stares at the other man for a long while, until Harry wonders whether he had even heard Riddle’s taunting words. Surely Malfoy would rise to such a bait? Malfoy had always hated Harry’s fame, after all. But then Malfoy chooses a completely different tune to play. He says with utter flatness,

You’re the Dark Lord.

And Harry almost wants to clap Malfoy on the back. Malfoy dos not even sound surprised.

Riddle twists his smile so that it becomes a smirk. Well, aren’t you clever. He says this with much mockery and no fondness. Clever, clever. But a moment too late.

And Riddle turns his head, and Harry starts because—

Riddle is looking at him.

It looks like we have a visitor, Riddle says softly.

 

And Harry jolts awake, bleary and hazy. He looks around in the darkness and hears familiar snores, and plops back onto his pillow again. Before he knows it, he is fast asleep and lets another dream take over him.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some quotations that I used from the Philosopher's Stone and the Goblet of Fire. Nothing too repetitive, I hope.  
> Also, please keep in mind that Harry is not normal in this particular story (suffering a mild case of PTSD, which I apologize for taking some liberties) and which is why dialogue and thought processes often merge together.  
> Thank you for reading!

Teddy walks.

No, he thinks, a moment of frantic despair grappling over him, no. I am not ready for this. I am not ready for you, Teddy. Dear god.

Teddy walks towards him, his unsteady legs wobbling, and yet he walks onwards. His eyes set in such a determined glint, unwavering at him. Arms outstretched. Beseeching, catch me if I fall, won’t you, Harry.

Helplessly, he stretches out. Waits for the boy to come waddling over. I got you, Teddy, he whispers.  Teddy smiles at his voice. He walks and does not fall. Harry grasps his little fingers, he grabs the boy and swings him around. Teddy laughs. The sun is bright upon them, and Teddy is young and alive, breathing against his chest.

Teddy knew nothing about the war growing up. Harry forbade him to know nothing but joy, of sheer childhood happiness. He visited the boy often at his grandmother’s, when nightmares took their toll, and allowed himself to bask in Teddy’s innocence, thinking, this boy is all that is left of Remus. The years gone by were marked with Teddy’s growth; Harry retreated further and further away from the world at large, content to watch his godson grow older. The world shrank until it only met Teddy’s needs. Teddy grew up as a quiet child, nevertheless, his wide eye boring into his one day, asking,

where are my parents Harry?

He said this such an innocent air. And yet there must be something about orphans; he should know, he had often asked the questions himself when he was young, just when he was Teddy’s age, in fact, and his chest tightened when Teddy looked at him with such trust. He brushed a stray hair out of Teddy’s face and replied,

Well, they…

He faltered. All those years ago, he understood why his aunt may have said that his own parents died in a car crash, her hatred for magic not withstanding. It was so much easier than cradling a young child, trying to put into words: they died in a war, and they died fighting for their lives, and they went down protecting you. How do you tell a child of the horrors of war, how do you go about justifying their actions, how do you honor their memories without holding back your own grief?

No, he could not. So he smiled and kissed the crown of Teddy’s hair and murmured, that’s a story for another time, and Teddy snuggled up to him and did not question his words. And Harry never quite manages to tell him. Because he thought there would be time, that Teddy would have years and years to come to terms with his family’s history.

But such foolish notions, they did not come to pass. Teddy had died in broad daylight, out on the streets in front of witnesses, struck by a spell that had been aimed at Harry. An ordinary day, an uneventful walk. Teddy wanted ice cream, and Harry had indulged him. They were walking along amicably, when there was a sudden shout, a very familiar wave of words, and just as Harry whirled around Teddy was standing right in front of him, and Harry thought frantically, no, no, no, even as his body refused to move—

Harry stood by numb, as time stopped, a flash of green light blinding him one moment, and the air soon cleared, leaving Teddy’s limp body sprawled on the pavement.

He never had a chance to look at the face of the killer. The people around him screamed, and Harry was left alone, wand brought out too late, his mind empty with black fire. A promise: I will find you and I will kill you. The sheer amount of hatred aimed at this nameless person frightened him. He stumbled back and with his trembling hands, lifted Teddy up to cradle the lifeless body.

Later, Shacklebolt took him aside and said to him with his tired voice, the war is never quite over, Harry. It takes time, we are still trying to adjust. Harry would have come up with a sharp retort to that, but Shacklebolt looked too worn out to deal with his frustration, the years after the war weighing down on him. We’ll try to catch the killer, of course, and stay on alert meanwhile…and, take care of yourself, Harry. There are still people out there who still wish you ill. Who would love to see you dead.

Teddy was only nine.

A few weeks later, he met up with Shacklebolt again to discuss the changed circumstances for one Draco Malfoy.

.

.

.

One good thing about sharing a dorm with Malfoy, Harry thinks, as he yanks away Malfoy’s bedsheets away from the sleeping boy while cheerfully conjuring up a tickling charm, was that at least he could keep track of the little bugger whenever he so chose.

“What—mrrrph. Potter, what the—”

“It’s almost midnight, Malfoy,” he says brightly, making sure to keep his voice down lest any of the other boys wake up. “Guards Chamber, duel, remember? Hurry up, I don’t fancy running into Filch at this hour.”

Malfoy stares at him with bleary eyes for a good moment before he sighs loudly and sits up.

“I was joking, Potter,” he grumbles, his voice thick with sleep, “Obviously. I’m not idiotic enough to actually duel you. Besides, we’re bound to get caught—”

“Not if I do this,” he says, and taps Malfoy’s forehead quickly before Malfoy could get away with a yelp. Malfoy’s body soon morphs with his surroundings as Malfoy wildly looks about him.

“I—was, did you just put a Disillusionment Charm on me, Potter?”

“Right you are,” he says pleasantly, and gestures with his wand. “We don’t have all night. Come on, before the others wake up.”

“I want Goyle to come as my second at least,” Malfoy mutters, but he obediently swings his legs down to the floor. He shivers as Harry casts another disillusionment charm upon himself, and together, they move in quiet steps outside the dorm rooms and down the common rooms.

“Do you even know how to duel, Potter?” Malfoy asks him snidely behind his back.

“Yes,” he shoots back. He doesn’t add, you taught me the proper, pureblood way, one rainy afternoon when you were bored out of your wits and had nothing to do. We ended up demolishing half the dining room and I’ve never seen Kreacher that furious, but there you have it. “I even know how to wave up the incantations before the actual duel. Bet you didn’t expect that, eh, Malfoy?”

“Color me surprised,” Malfoy mutters.

The way to the Guards Chamber is eerily silent. Malfoy sticks close to him, even as he is grumbling foul words behind his back and seemingly brandishing his wand ever few seconds. From the corner of his eyes, Harry can see a flicker of movement that does not quite merge with the rest of the castle walls. He does not comment on it, and proceeds to walk with caution, careful not to let his footsteps echo so loudly.

The castle is different during peacetime. He does not have to walk about in wary danger; no Death Eaters and curses lurk in the hidden alcoves, and he can feel the ancient wards and magic reeking out from the castle walls. He feels safe; it is a foreign feeling, a quiet contentment that hums inside him as he twirls his wand idly.

They enter the Guards Chamber, a wide, long room holding rows of medieval shields and swords aligning against the walls. The middle of the room is left stark and bare, perfect for spells to fly past without overturning trifling ornaments. He quickly dispels the disillusioning charms, and Malfoy shakes himself a little, looking around and scowling at his surroundings.

“Where did you learn how to cast a wandless?” he asks. Now that Malfoy is truly alone, he feels that they should start over. How bad could it be, Harry thinks, we have a talk, I apologize about the train incident, and he insults me, etc. but he won’t actively hate me. He’s still young and open for manipulation. Why don't we start by me stroking his blasted ego and we can move from there.

Malfoy does not answer his question at first, walking about the room with his scowl becoming more pronounced, his grip on his wand tighter with each step.

“Malfoy?” he presses, when Malfoy stays silent, “First night? You held up a Summoning charm. That’s a fourth year spell, and it was wandless at that.”

“Smart of you to know that, considering your Muggle background, Potter,” Malfoy spits, continuing with his furious pacing, “There are things called private tutors, and advanced training, in case such things flew out of your tiny mind. It’s not that hard, once you get he grasp of it. Well. Why am I explaining this all to you? You’re familiar with most of the spells we’re covering now, anyway. The question is, _how_?”

Malfoy whirls around and suddenly advances towards him, a glint in his pale eyes and an ugly twist on his mouth.

“Don’t think you’re the only one with questions. I have quite a few of my own. How, Potter?” he says savagely, “I’ve read all about you. And your Muggle background. How you were raised by filthy relatives somewhere in Surrey, of all places. There’s no way you could have mastered the finer details of spellwork on your own, and I don’t really buy the Daily Prophet’s claim of your innate talents that took down the Dark Lord all those years ago. I just don’t.”

“The Daily Prophet is already writing about me?” he says, somewhat dumbfounded, then shakes his head. “No, wait, of course they would. And no, you’re right, there isn’t some innate talent that I just happened to have. It’s…” he trails off, thinking, there are these things called horcruxes, nasty things, they are, I was one of them, Voldemort is still out there but is barely functioning under Quirrell’s turban, my mum protected me with love and ancient blood rituals, I also happened to collect the three Hallows, you know, those bedtime stories that you’ve read as a child, and I happen to be the Master of Death so I nattered to that poor, immortal soul until he sent me back in time to fix something. Anything. And so here I am with my infinite knowledge of war and many useful spells that really, no eleven-year-old is supposed to know, but that’s neither here nor there, is it? And here I am talking to you while preparing myself for a duel with a child. Really, what am I thinking?

“Look, actually. Malfoy. I think you have some questions about me, and I of you, and enemy ground is not always the best way to strike up a conversation. So.” He waves vaguely to their secluded surroundings. “Here we are.”

“We’re here to duel, Potter,” Malfoy says with scorn dripping over his voice. “Not to, god forbid, have a conversation of all things—”

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

Malfoy’s wand shoots out without a warning, and Harry catches it deftly, spinning the captured wand between his fingers.

Malfoy stands still for a minute, then snarls.

“Give it back, Potter.”

“No.”

“I thought you said you observed the proper dueling etiquettes beforehand. This is not one of them, I’ll have you know. _Give me back my wand_.”

“You’re the one who didn't even bother to wake up for our duel,” he points out, “I had to wake you up, and drag us all the way up here.”

Malfoy sneers. “Yes, well, Potter, forgive me if I didn’t want to waste my precious time dueling with fools who voluntarily befriend Mudbloods and giants. Father would be appalled at the lack of taste I was showing through my enemies.”

Harry’s smile slips. “Don’t call Hermione a Mudblood,” he warns, his voice dropping, “She’s loads better at spells than you are at the moment, there’s no reason for you to—”

“Blood, Potter,” Malfoy says, with a new light dawning in his eyes as he observes Harry with anew mirth, not at all kindly, “You really are ignorant about so many things, aren’t you? Blood and nothing else—that’s all that matters in the end. Who cares about wandwork, and spells, and the tidbits of what goes on in the classroom? That Granger doesn’t have enough magic in her, and magic is only pure in its rawest form.” Malfoy’s lips curl. “They come from the bloodlines, and she doesn’t have it. That’s why she’s tainted, but if you can’t see that, bully for you then, isn’t it?”

Harry’s blood runs cold.

“Is that so,” he says, and some days, some very bad days, he just cannot seem to recognize his own voice. Such days come when he realizes that sometimes everything he had fought for had been for naught, as there were countless deaths every day even after Voldermort, there had been Teddy and later even Malfoy, there were people who still thought horrid things after everything that had happened, that people thought ten years were enough for people to heal and move on, and that a time span of ten years was all they needed to pop out the old purist views and the pureblood rhetoric that he had so detested in his youth. As if, ten years would wipe away the stench of burnt buildings, and bodies lying in the streets, and the Dark Mark looming over the night sky like the plague; as if people have willingly cast memory charms upon the fallen dead. On such days he feels incapable of trying to make such people understand. He does not have it in him to make them sit down and say, look, we are going to strike up a conversation about acceptance and tolerance. No; he cuts his voice short and shuts them down. His voice barely rises. It is cold and utterly devoid of emotion, flat and barren like the wasteland he sees his mind as. He studies Malfoy dispassionately, all form of casualty and banter draining away as his mind is replaced with a new chant. What use is it, to talk to him? It is better to fight, to teach him with violence. Fight, and attack, and kill, _kill the spare…_

_it will be quick … it might even be painless … I would not know … I have never died …_

He starts.

Malfoy in the courtroom, older and resigned, looking at Harry as if it pained him to do so, spitting between clenched teeth, I’m not a pureblood racist shithead, Potter, not anymore. Malfoy, in Grimmauld Place, resolutely ignoring the Black family tree. Malfoy, when he had met Hermione after many years (and purely bad luck on her side too, because she was doing her usual thing, checking to see if Harry was alive in his drafty ancestral home, and Malfoy just happened to be loitering in the kitchen area) had proceeded to nod quickly and said, Granger I suppose I should owe you gratitude for that speech you wrote to Potter, and Hermione had looked at him bewildered and beyond shocked, before she composed herself and nodded tightly, oh, yes, of course, it wasn’t a problem, Malfoy, and they had left it at that, but on that day he had strangely felt proud of Malfoy and the way he held himself, and so he bumped Malfoy’s shoulder a little and ignored Malfoy’s disgruntled look and his mutter, what is wrong with you Potter, I swear…and his memory reels him back in, making him think: there was once a time when Malfoy was capable of distinguishing between what was right and wrong.

Present, young Malfoy looks at him strangely, his sneer wiped away with a new caution he bares out. Malfoy had stepped back, a wary eye trained towards Harry’s hand, which was now pointing towards Malfoy.

“This isn’t a fair duel, Potter,” Malfoy says, but the crack in his voice betrays his fear, “If you wanted to attack me cold-blooded, I would have thought you’d have an audience to watch, at the very least.”

Harry shakes his head a little and sighs.

“Malfoy, I just wanted to talk,” he says, and he is glad how his voice had returned; weary and drained, but not pitiless, not so empty that he would have attacked a young child without any thought. “But…it seems that we’re at odds with each other. As always.” He throws Malfoy’s wand back and the other boy immediately catches it. Seeker’s reflexes, Harry thinks, the fight gone out of him. He studies Malfoy’s small, hunched form, looking cold and peeved, but most of all, uncertain about his next actions. He is biting his lips and glaring at Harry. Harry thinks morbidly, but those are just words, he didn’t mean them yet, surely, did he? He is young, he is biased and a bully, but he is not a murderer…

He says dully, “Don’t call her a Mudblood. She’ll be a great witch someday, you know. Magical heritage not withstanding. Your Lord was a half-blood. I’m a half-blood. Get that through that thick head of yours.”

He turns around, and after a brief silence, he hears Malfoy’s soft steps following from behind. They make their way back to their common rooms without another word.

Before they head off to their respective beds, Malfoy’s arm shoots out. Harry starts, but Malfoy tugs him nearer until he is pressed up against Malfoy’s thin frame. The other boy’s breath tickles neck.

“I’ll study your bloodline and history,” Malfoy hisses, his mouth close to his ear, “And whatever insipid books you get your ideas from, Potter. It’s ridiculous, the way you yatter about how blood is not important. It is. Magic _is_.”

He swallows. “See,” he manages to whisper, “That’s all I was asking. I’ll study your family line too, how’s that? We call it even. It’s called a conversation, Malfoy.”

Malfoy lets out a soft snort. “From the way you were holding my wand towards me, it was anything but,” he says coldly. “Don’t threaten me again, Potter, or you’ll know the full extent of my father’s wrath.”

Harry succeeds in choking back his laughter.

.

.

.

In his classes, he sits with Hermione, and Ron resolutely ignores him while the other Slytherins (with the curious exception of Malfoy) makes horrid faces behind his back. The teachers look on with approval, taking Harry aside and saying how good it was to see inter-house relationships develop so early on in their school years. Snape, predictably, sneers at their pair of them but does not comment. He fails to give them House points even when they are the only ones to produce a perfect potion, to the great distress of Hermione, and Harry has not been quite able to hide his own irk. The man was anything but fair, he thinks sourly, cleaning up his cauldron and marching out of the dungeons.

But for the rest of his classes, there are only praises. The teachers fawn over Harry, which was a surreal and somewhat uncomfortable experience for him. His magical abilities weren’t anything extraordinary, but he had no desire to admit that he was a time traveler lest he sounded barmy. He smiles timidly at the lavishing praises and fends off Hermione’s insistence that he share his accomplishments. The other students give them a wide berth, to which Harry finds grateful, although often at times it seems to make Hermione uncomfortable.

“Don’t they give you a hard time?” she asks him curiously.

He shrugs. “Nothing that I can’t handle,” he says cheerfully, “And besides, I could say the same for you.”

“Oh, _them._ I couldn’t care less,” she huffs, and stares enviously at how he is tapping his wand in brisk movements to make the quill and parchment roll up neatly. Harry laughs at her and points to her own perfect spellwork, and some days he has the dubious honor of teaching Hermione the more complicated charms and incantations, although Hermione insisted on knowing the theory behind each syllable (“It’s just a swish and a jab in the air, Hermione.” “Yes, but _why_ not a sharp flick of the wrist instead of a light jab?” “You almost poked my eye with that one, you know.”) and Harry often at times felt equal parts exasperation and fondness for his younger friend. Besides Hermione, however, his classes soon begin to take on a more sinister feeling rooted deep inside him. He feels uncomfortable with his own smiles and his silence, his tendency to keep his head down and trying to pass by relatively unnoticed.

The uncomfortable, nagging feeling he had felt for the past few weeks finally comes into full recognition when he happens to overhear his teachers talk about his abilities. He stops to listen at a barely closed door, as Flitwick and McGonagall’s voices waft out of the small gap.

“Never seen quite a display of magic like that—”

“I would have thought, of course, that they boy would have been placed in my House, considering who he is and who his parents were, but nevertheless. I’m glad to see that he’s adapting to his House amicably enough without being saddled with its prejudice.”

“Well, his display of magic seems to show that he should have been placed in Ravenclaw! I told young Mr. Potter that the other day, and the poor boy looked very conflicted over my remark. Very polite too, very quiet indeed…”

“If he keeps on his studies like this, I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t made a prefect by his fifth year. And then, of course, he might even turn out to be a Head Boy like his father.”

“A Head Boy in Slytherin!” A tiny squeak follows. “Severus will be pleased, at any rate.”

“Oh, Severus is…a bit emotional when it comes to Potter. I don't think he can barely look at the boy, much less come to terms with the fact that Potter is in his House. He’ll come to see reason one of these days, I hope.”

“Well, it’s a bit too early in the boy’s school year to decide where he will end up. Why, there hasn’t been a Head Boy in Slytherin, not since—”

_Riddle._

He does not need to hear the name as he staggers back. Away from the door, away from the voices that dare speak, to even suggest the name. Surely not. He feels his hands shake and he heaves in a breath.

Yes, that was what was wrong. This entire act of pleasantry, of a false, polite demeanor, now where had I seen that all before?

And the voices, he thinks at once. The voices that creep up to him at such random intervals, always so innocently and subtly, coaxing him to act in terrible ways, emptying out his mind and emotions, making his thoughts into a hazy fog of grey, was that Riddle, too?

He thinks wildly, am I turning into Tom Riddle? Am I going mad? Surely not, surely this doesn’t mean anything. But the mere fact that he was being casually mentioned alongside the younger version of Voldemort sets him on edge. He turns around and walks down the winding corridor, and up towards a familiar stairway. He breaks out at a run and does not stop until he is a gasping mess in front of the gargoyles.

I need to speak to him. I’ve put it off long enough.

.

.

.

Dumbledore came in his dreams, some days, when he had still been at Grimmauld Place. He does not stay long and always gets to the point. In the familiar King’s Cross backdrop, he would speak with gentle earnest lacing his cold words. You were right to die Harry. His voice is kind and sincere, his eyes ever twinkling. Harry sees the soft swish of his robes and wonders but does not ask. Sir, he tries instead, but Dumbledore goes on as if Harry did not interrupt.

You did the right thing, Harry. My boy. Dumbledore glides over to him and lays a long finger against his cheek. It is cold to the touch and Harry shivers. Dumbledore tilts his head. In a quieter voice, Dumbledore’s voice washes over him like a lullaby. Your worth, Harry. Your death was all it came down to. We all make sacrifices in the name of war. Your mother, who died to save you; Severus, who died to honor your mother; you, who died in the name of a worthy cause…Harry, my boy. My dear boy. What are you worth, without the sacrifices that you have made?

But, Harry finally rasps. But. I came back, sir. I died and came back.

Yes, Dumbledore says. Perhaps you should not have. Perhaps it would have been better if you had stayed dead.

Dumbledore smiles at him with those last words and his eyes turn glowing red. Harry starts and turns away. He runs, and in his wake he hears Voldemort laughing, his voice ringing across the entirety of King’s Cross as Harry stumbles and never looks back. Whiteness blinds him as he screams.

 

And then he would wake, shaking. Thinking blindly, why did Dumbledore send me back into the world of living?

Only the dead have the answers to his questions now.  

 

Perhaps it was the dream-Dumbledore that had made him wary of the old and very alive Albus Dumbledore in this timeline. He knows Dumbledore better now, his family history and his mistakes throughout his life that may have cost lives (might have cost Sirius, Harry thinks treacherously, before he shoves that dark thought deeply in one corner of his head). He knows how Dumbledore had been mad for power once, when he was young and brilliant, and how Dumbledore had craved power, letting his desires run amok, resulting in the death of his sister. He understands Dumbledore’s own ghosts, and his desires that he had kept at bay for decades, and how, with the rise of Tom Riddle, Dumbledore had made many sacrifices, many of them honorable, but not all of them wise…

Harry stands, panting at the familiar staircase and feeling quite dumb, staring at the malicious looking gargoyles not letting him enter in without a password.

“Oh, great,” he mutters, and paces up the corridor, shaking his head. “Great, great, great, last thing I need, what I need is…”

He whirls around and demands with an aggressive tone, “Lemon drops.”

The gargoyles do not move.

He bites his lips. Panic sets at him. He really has no business standing here, he knows. Circumstances are different; he is not a fawned Gryffindor in this lifetime, Dumbledore might suspect a piece of Voldemort’s soul in Harry already, may be making plans to get rid of him, mayhap—

Dumbledore is not evil, get a grip on yourself, he tells himself sternly. Ten years of nightmares about that blasted King’s Cross can do that to you, the calm, benevolent voice of Dumbledore wiped away with the horrid laughter of Voldemort’s.

He shivers and taps his foot. “Chocolate Frogs,” he mutters. “Er. Acid Pops?”

He had to speak to him. If only he could see, the real flesh and bone of the old wizard, if he could only convince himself that the Headmaster, despite his plans that circled around the greater good, was for all intent and purposes, not a reincarnation of something darker. If only. Harry taps his foot impatiently again and snaps loudly, “Fizzing Whizbee!”

“Harry?”

He whirls around and sees Dumbledore standing a few feet behind him, an amused look in his eyes as he stands observing him. Harry gaps a little, and remembers his manners, stuttering, “I—sir. I’m sorry, I thought you would be in your office.”

“A late afternoon stroll to quell my aching back. It’s the weather, I’m afraid.” Dumbledore, an alive and whole Albus Dumbledore at that, smiles at him. He tilts his head. “I did not know that you would guess my preferences for passwords. Quite an intelligent show of guesswork, my boy.”

He can only give out a terse nod, before his insides feel like they are about to burst and he manages to speak out, “Sir, I was wondering, if—if you might have a moment—”

“Certainly, my dear boy,” Dumbledore says, and with a wave of his hand the gargoyles move out of the way and leads them to a spiraling staircase. “After you, Harry.”

He nods and enters.

The room is the same as it had always been in his memories; the circular, wide room filled with fascinating objects that hummed a steady tune. Harry looks around, momentarily bewildered, and out of the corner of his eyes, he sees—

Fawkes, he almost says, but clamps down his mouth shut just in time, and manages to close his useless mouth as he sees the phoenix give out a thrilling cry at its nest hanging above the Headmaster’s desk.

“I see that Fawkes has taken to you,” Dumbledore says cheerfully, and he sidesteps Harry to reach his seat across from where Harry was left standing, lost for words. “Have a seat, please, in your own good time, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry murmurs, and he sinks into the chair across from Dumbledore, taking in the rows of portraits from years past, the comforting magical aura that surrounds him; he feels safe here, protected almost, and he has to momentarily grit his teeth and order his mind to focus.

“Tea, Harry? And some biscuits?” Dumbledore waves his wand, and a tray of a hot steaming tea with small delicacies are placed in front of him. Harry swallows back a laugh, thinking back to the surreal tea sessions with Tom Riddle, and nods his thanks. For a short while, Harry takes time to sip his tea, while Dumbledore does not quite watch him, content enough to smile and nibble on a biscuit, idly stroking Fawkes, now perched on his shoulder.

“Sir,” Harry breaks the silence first, setting his tea on the tray abruptly, “I was just thinking, well. I’ve heard some of my professors talking and—”

“Ah. I’ve been hearing about your splendid progress, Harry.” Dumbledore gives him a beaming smile, nodding sagely, blue eyes twinkling in his direction. “Professor McGonagall is especially pleased with your abilities in Transfiguration, it had been quite a talent of your late father’s, bringing back quite a few fond memories.” Dumbledore coughs a little at that, as if he hadn’t quite meant to phrase it in such a manner, but his smile does not falter as he continues, “If you do not mind me saying so, you would have done your parents proud. Both of them were wonderful people in their own right, of course, and powerful with their magic.”

Harry nods. He sips his tea again, hoping to shove the lump back into his throat—he will not break down here, he was walking down a fine line already, waltzing into the Headmaster’s office when he was supposed to barely even know the man—“I just wondered, sir,” he says, making sure his voice is steady. “The Sorting Hat…well, it wanted me to choose between two Houses, you see. One was Slytherin, and the other was Gryffindor.” He swallows. Dumbledore only watches him with a patient air, encouraging him to go on, “And I chose Slytherin, for my own personal reasons. But now I’m afraid…” He looks down at his lap. Oh, this is silly, he thinks, anger bubbling inside him, Dumbledore can’t help me, not when I’m a wreck like this, not when Dumbledore doesn't even know whether the war would actually happen. Voldemort has been gone over eleven years now in this timeline, surely he wouldn’t be thinking about the war. People forget, they move on.

But Dumbledore had never quite forgotten, that was the thing. Dumbledore was like Harry in some ways; both were waiting for the other bombshell to break and disrupt their lives, even while the rest of the people were wild with excitement at the prospect of peace. Dumbledore had been waiting for Voldemort, bidding his time. This was why he is here standing in front of his old Headmaster, to perhaps understand his own mind just as much as Dumbledore’s.

“I…knew another boy who was in Slytherin,” he says, phasing his words carefully. “I’ve been doing some extra reading, sir, and I couldn’t help but read up on…well, this peculiar boy, who attended Hogwarts almost fifty years ago, and he was also very talented, very capable; teachers only had the highest praise for him—”

“Why, Harry,” Dumbledore says kindly, “Do you think you are like Lord Voldemort?”

Harry jerks up his head and stares at the Headmaster with wide eyes. Dumbledore does not look at him any differently, he is holding his gaze with fondness and a faint air of reassurance, nothing like the cruel, mocking gaze of Dumbledore from his dreams who urges him to die.

“I—no,” he whispers. Suddenly the room is utterly stifling, the churning instruments have stopped their humming, and Fawkes had retreated and nestled its head behind its bundle of wings. “No, that’s preposterous, I didn’t mean—or, yeah, maybe I meant.” He stops and closes his eyes. He laughs a little and the laughter sounds like the earlier years right after the war, when he was broken and lost, “Sometimes I think he’s somewhere in my mind,” he says slowly, knowing that Dumbledore would be thinking of the Horcrux lurking somewhere inside his soul. Would his eleven-year-old body still have that tethering piece of soul entrenched somewhere? He did not know. “I think that I might become him, or no, sometimes I just feel so angry at everything, Headmaster, and I can't—”

He was angry throughout the war, too. In his head there was always a sharp, coiling fury, all too ready to strike out against anyone who threatened him and his loved ones, and it was a burning feeling that had kept him nourished even after the war had been over. He could not explain it. He could not let it go. He embraced it gladly, for on most days, that was the only thing he could truly feel aside his apathy. He felt ready to kill or did not feel at all. And here, Dumbledore is sitting across from him with a benevolent air, and Harry wants to shake him; yell, you have been through Grindelwald’s wars and the First War, how can you sit as if your life was one big great adventure of tranquility and peace? He heaves a breath.

“Headmaster,” he says steadily, trying again. “There are some things—I know. That I shouldn’t. About me, about Voldemort, even about you, sir.” At this Dumbledore raises a surprised eyebrow but does not comment on his words. He plunges on, “And it got me thinking. It’s been bugging me for quite a while now you see, and.” It’s been haunting my dreams for ten years, because I was left to die, and I talked to you inside my head after that, but that's not quite the same thing as actually hearing you, isn’t that right, sir? You threw your life for the greater cause of the war, and then you entrusted me to go forth, and to do what was right, what was necessary, and how could you have known what I would have done? How could you trust me so? I was barely seventeen. The lump inside his throat grows bigger.

“Sir, I just wanted to ask you,” Harry says, and does not look at Dumbledore, who is watching him intently, traces of his smile gone and instead replaced with worry, “If…if there comes a time. When something awful happens. Let’s, let’s say if—”

“If there comes a time when Voldemort returns?” Dumbledore asks gently, and Harry gives a sharp nod of his head instead of a reply. “Yes, I was assuming. I am sorry to interrupt, my boy. Do go on.”

“If there is a chance that Voldemort returns. Would you…what would you have me do? I should do something, shouldn’t I?” In your grand scheme of things, he does not add. He is gulping in great mouthfuls of air, his hands clenched into fists. His body shakes. “I mean, Headmaster, I would just like to know. Where I stand. In this war that is to come.” He shoves other ugly words back, in the war that had happened, and I died, and came back alive, only I do not quite get that bit, haven’t really, sir, for the past ten years. You go into your death expecting nothing, and suddenly you become the Master of Death and have Dark Lords visit you in your dreams and everything spirals down into a cozy nightmare. Domestic, almost. It would have been nice, Harry thinks with familiar rankling, if I had just died. If he had not moved forth. If he had just let Neville kill the snake, and then the withering corpse that was Voldemort.

Dumbledore does not speak for a long moment, and Harry looks up at him, waiting for something, and he is taken aback by the look on Dumbledore’s face. The Headmaster looks very tired and old, very sad. He puts a hand over his wrinkled face and rubs his eyes.

“I do not know where you get your tales and mishaps, my dear boy,” he says in a tender voice. “But I am afraid that most of the worries that you speak of are quite rightly placed, and I sometimes share your same misgivings. The very same, in fact. The wizarding world at large does not believe in the resurrection of Voldermort, a name, I am glad to see you acutely say without fear, my boy. But you are telling me that you think otherwise.” Harry gives a short nod. “You speak of many things that are surely beyond your age, when you should be enjoying this new, dazzling world…why, Harry, you have years ahead of you. And yet…” Dumbledore gives out a great sigh, and gives a helpless gesture. “I would not have you do anything, Harry. Not unless it was necessary. But that does not mean I would try to protect you from the things you must learn to stand up to fight against. If there is anything I have learned about wizarding wars, it is that no sacrifice is too great, no child too young to kill in the eyes of desperate men for power.” Dumbledore has a faraway look in his eyes; he must be thinking of his sister, Harry thinks. At once, he feels the beginnings of guilt gnawing at him, disgusted with his mind for ever comparing Dumbledore with Voldemort, but then, a small insisting voice stops his remorse from completely blooming. That wasn’t a real answer, the voice says stubbornly, you should ask him outright, no harm now, is there?

“Sir?” Harry asks, the words uncurling out of him, words that have been waiting to be asked for many years, “I…would I die? In this war that is to come. Would you let me die?”

There is silence in the room. A deafening silence that suffocates him, and he almost expects Dumbledore’s eyes to turn red, turn into slits, as the mouth would open to drawl out cruel words to proclaim his impending doom…

“Why, Harry,” Dumbledore says sadly. He looks defeated. “I do not quite know. Not yet, I hope. Not for a long time.” He hesitates. “Is there anything you wish to tell me?” he says quietly. “Something you know? These are very morbid thoughts that you are having. I am…worried.”

He swallows. He averts his head and chokes. “No, sir. I just…I sometimes have nightmares. Flashes of green light. Death. Laughter.” He lets out a measured breath. “I think I dream of Voldemort,” he says carefully.

“And you are afraid that you will one day like him,” Dumbledore says.

“Some days,” Harry says. He does not talk about his anger, the maniacal Tom Riddle twirling around his head, his perverse delight in dueling with Voldemort again and again. He does not say, sometimes the nightmares make me feel more alive than I ever had. He stands up. “Thank you for your time, Headmaster,” he says. “I…it was nice of you, listening to me blabber on. I think I might have a wild imagination.” He tries out for a smile, fails, and watches as Dumbledore attempts a mirror of the smile with much more success.

“But of course, my boy,” Dumbledore says lightly, waving his hand; the fatigue in his face is suddenly gone, and the silver instruments in the room begin to tinker again. “Whenever you have any problems, Harry, I shall be happy to listen. Whatever they may be.”

Harry nods, and head towards the entrance.

“Oh, and Harry?”

He turns.  

Dumbledore is studying him through his silver rimmed glasses, his eyes glowing with fondness, with a tinge of forlorn regret.

“Voldemort had wrecked many lives and done terrible things in his lifetime,” he says, “But being Sorted into Slytherin did not do that to him. I am glad you have caught on so quickly to that fact.” Dumbledore gives him a warm smile. It looks the most genuine by far. “Hermione Granger seems to be a very clever witch indeed. It is something that the young Lord Voldemort had never quite understood—the great power that comes with friendship.”

The coldness inside his body melts a little. Harry nods, and the smile he gives Dumbledore is brighter than his last. So he doesn't care that I’m not in Gryffindor. It should not have mattered; what good was it to get into Dumbledore’s good graces with so much more at stake? What did it matter of Dumbledore’s approval? But somehow even after all these years, it manages to leave a warm burn across his chest.

Still Dumbledore’s man after all these years, a voice drawls out. Nothing answered, nothing absolved. And yet, you leave contented, still a meek lamb to the slaughter.

.

.

.

Halloween.

The feast was midway when Quirrell staggers into the Great Hall dramatically, his steps faltering straight in the middle of the room, and he gasps, troll, in the dungeons, thought you ought to know, and just like that—he collapses. There is much commotion even amongst the Slytherins, and the Slytherin prefects are up and about, ushering the first years with panicked looks. Stay put, they shout, and he catches a glimpse of a bright redhead scurrying around the hoard of students wearing red and gold. Far too short to be Fred of George, never mind Percy…

He swallows and slows down his steps.

“Ow, watch it, Potter!”

“Sorry,” he says, distracted, and he turns around, going against the direction of his fellow classmates. The others are giving him curious looks but he ignores them all, heart pounding, but Hermione shouldn’t be in the girl’s bathroom at all, why would Ron go look for the troll?

No, Ron was lost somewhere in the dungeons, stuck in the Potions corridor and the girl’s bathroom, walking frantically, about in circles. His footsteps ring loudly against the stone floors when Harry catches up to him.

“I—Weasley, what are you doing here?” he hisses, making a grabbing motion with his hand. Ron starts at the sound of his voice, and turns, his eyes wide.

“Harry,” he gasps, and automatically corrects himself, “I, I mean Potter. I was looking for you, thought I’d never get myself out of here, the dungeons are a bloody maze—”

“Never mind that now,” Harry cuts in, “Why are you here? The troll could be here any time now! You can’t take down a mountain troll down on your own, can you?”

“I—no, reckon I can’t,” Ron says in short, rapid bursts of air, “But, look—that’s not the main issue right now, I have something to tell you—”

A loud thump is heard, and a looming shadow is upon Ron’s small frame. Harry smells the troll before he can turn around, can hear the troll’s grunt before he sees Ron’s white face.

“RON!” he screams.

The troll lunges, and at that moment instinct kicks in. He shoves Ron out of the way.

“ _Protego_!”

The troll hits a white barrier with the club and looks momentarily confounded, grunting madly and its beady eyes narrow in concentration. Harry slashes the air with his wand, and the troll staggers back, the grip on its club tightening. It’s going for the kill, Harry notes grimly, wand raised.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_!”

He starts, turning around. Ron has his own wand raised, his face still in shock but set with concentration, and Harry feels a brief surge of affection towards his friend, but then he quickly notes that the Levitation charm did not quite succeed in loosening the grip on the troll. If anything, the troll looks enraged, grunting as the club tries to hover in mid-air, and it lets out a great roar before turning its focus to Ron and stomping over the remain few steps. It raises its free hand and prepares to strike. Ron lets out a shrill shriek, dropping his wand.

Harry points his wand, thinks of gory torture and death, almost, almost casts something not quite acceptable, and bites his lips. Gritting his teeth, he manages a harmless Stunning charm; it hits the troll in the back of the neck, and the troll momentarily swings unsteadily around before it topples over with a loud crash.

Between them, there is the stunned troll, and an empty corridor. Ron’s heaving breaths echo around them as Harry surveys the damage done. Ron’s knees are shaking. He is trying to croak something out but failing quite miserably. Shock. Harry decides, marching over to him. Ron does not resist as Harry pats him down, shakes his shoulders a little. He demands, “Are you alright?” and Ron gives out a little jerk of his head, blubbering nonsensical words. Harry waits for the shock to pass, for Ron to be functional again. They still had a troll to get rid of, he thinks wryly, taking a look at the unmoving lump, before the professors get here.

Ron follows his eyes and gulps.

“I,” Ron says weakly, his eyes growing wide. “I—you saved me. Why?” His voice is high pitched. “Why would you save me?”

Harry looks at him, tired. “I told you,” he says quietly, “I wanted to be your friend. Even if I didn’t…well, it’s not like I could leave you here to die.”

Ron gulps. “Harry, I…” he shakes his head a little and holds out his hand. It is still shaking.

“I owe you a life debt, Harry Potter,” he says.

Solemn words and vows have no place in their friendship; Harry does not care to listen to them, so he begins to shake his head. He turns around. “No, I don’t want—”

“And an apology.”

He stops.

Ron is looking at him with a grim face, set and determined. His eyes are unwavering as they meet Harry’s own, and he ducks his head. “I know I’ve been a right git,” he mutters. “I just…look, it’s not as if I’ve ever met a good Slytherin in my life before, Mum’s always talking about Dark wizards and such, and the war…it took two of her brother you see, and I—”

“You don’t,” he interrupts, his voice going dry. “You don’t have to apologize, that’s just silly, it’s—”

“I do,” Ron says. “Because you were right, we were friends before you even got sorted into Slytherin, and besides, you’re Harry Potter, you’re the last person on earth who’d turn Dark, and me, I’m just Ron Weasley and…honestly, Harry, I don’t know why you’d want to be my friend. I’ve been going mad over that, to tell you the truth.”

Because you were the first friend I ever had, you daft idiot. You sat with me on the train all those years ago.

Harry swallows this in and goes for a light approach.

“You’re wicked at chess, from what I heard,” Harry offers with a weak smile. “That’s a start.”

Ron stares at him, baffled. “Is it?” he asks weakly. “Well, whatever rocks your boat, I guess.”

They stand like that, stupidly grinning at each other and then Harry jerks his head.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Halloween. It was an anti-climatic experience compared to his first memories when everything had leered at him  and loomed over him, and the troll was a menacing threat instead of a mild irritation to be dealt with. But he got back his friend, and a new revelation about the events to come.

“Harry,” Ron whispers to him, just as they are about to split towards their respective dorms, “Did you know that Quirrell’s trying to kill you?”

Harry stares at him.

Unbidden, Death’s cooing voice: understand, Harry Potter, that the past cannot change; though the routes leading to inevitably may twist, though the variables may shift, in the grand scheme of things…it matters not, child, it matters not.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy's family sources from from Pottermore. Nothing belongs to me.

“Quirrell?” Harry repeats. He attempts a smile. “I—Ron—what are you—”

“Shh,” Ron says, his face scrunching up, finger on his lips. “I—later, okay? That was why I had to find you before—well, among other things—”

“I’ll see at breakfast tomorrow,” Harry says, and Ron shoots him a pleased, surprised grin, “Later, Weasley.”

“Later, Potter.” And with that, Ron is gone in a flash, his long legs hurriedly leaving the crime of the scene.

He hears footsteps, and taking a quick drag of air, taps himself with his wand and makes his way to the common rooms undetected by the rest of the professors, who are now rushing to see what the loud thump had been. On the way he passes Snape, who looks around him with a suspicious glare, but Harry ducks his head and makes sure that his footsteps are not heard amidst the clamoring noise. 

The rest of the first years are feasting down in the common rooms in a small corner, but Malfoy spots him entering, and quickly makes his way up to him.

“Did you go off to finish the troll yourself, Potter?” he says scathingly.

Harry blinks at him. “I guess I did,” he answers carefully. Malfoy has been actively ignoring him for the past few weeks, and has instead for throwing befuddled glares across his way, which Harry had cheerfully ignored until now. “Caught on quick to my heroic charm, have you?”

Malfoy sneers. “It’s no secret, Potter, not when you’ve practically ran off in the other direction of our dorms. Snape almost caught you,” he adds as an afterthought, “I told him that you just headed off to bed because you were feeling so poorly.”

“I. Er. Thanks?” he offers. He raises his eyebrows. “That was pretty decent of you, Malfoy. Considering we’re not friends.”

Malfoy sticks his pale chin out and sniffs. He looks begrudged and disgruntled, looking for all the world he would rather do anything else than stand out in the open and talk to him, of all things. “I don’t understand you, Potter,” he mutters. “You’re perfectly tolerable for all the wrong reasons, and then you go ahead and act like a right berk—”

“Because you provoked me,” Harry reminds him.

“Not to mention your disastrous friendships and your taste for heroism,” Malfoy continues on, ignoring Harry’s words. “Going after a troll. Really, Potter, you’re an odd sort, aren't you? I’ve read some books about the Potters, by the way. And of your kind. Not to mention, those awful treaties that Dumbledore had made years ago on _Muggleborns_.” Malfoy still sneers at the word as if he means to say Mudbloods, but it’s a start, a small step. Harry feels a smile creeping up his face. “It’s a load of rubbish, I’d like to say, and—”

“I’ve read up on your history too, you know,” Harry says. He lets a wicked grin slip onto his face, thoughts of Quirrell momentarily forgotten. He lowers his voice, letting old memories speak out for him. “Did you know that before the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, one of your ancestors asked for the hand of the Muggle Queen Elizabeth? He got rejected too, that poor old sod. Didn’t stop him from fraternizing with higher class Muggles. Maybe that has to do with this interesting bit—your side of the family was staunchly opposed to the Statute. Maybe didn’t want all their fancy invitations from the Muggles to dry out. Interesting, you know. Just a thought.”

By the time Harry had spoken his little tidbit, Malfoy’s face had gone a bit white, but his lips pursued into his familiar sneer, as if Harry’s words did not faze him at all. “I don’t know where you get your sources, Potter,” he grumbles, “But those are conjectures, conspiracy theories, nothing worth—”

“I found them in one of the old family Black’s libraries,” Harry tells him, almost too gleefully. “When I—er. I inherited some things after my parents’ death, and I have a godfather from the Black family. So. You married up quite a few half-bloods in your line too, and you can’t really say—”

“Yes, alright, you’ve made your point,” Malfoy snaps, his voice now nearly a sharp hiss, “This isn’t the most ideal place for us to have this little chitchat, Potter. I only wanted to say that I’ve done my bit on this idiotic research, now I’ve seen that you’ve done your bit and that—”

“We could move past blood feuds and childish insults?” Harry offers, and Malfoy snorts.

“No, now you’ll tell me how you could have inherited anything from the Black side of the family, and I could—”

Malfoy cuts off his words and looks uncomfortable, fiddling his sleeves. Harry observes that sudden movement, remembering, that’s something that the older Malfoy used to do when he was irked with the entire situation, when something distressed him; he would have that weird light in his eyes.

“Look, Potter,” Malfoy says, “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, and frankly I don’t really give a damn at this point, because, well. What are you trying to do?”

Harry opens his mouth to say: well, nothing Malfoy, just having a bit of fun, thinking I wanted to be the good guy for a change, because I’ve seen you haunted by war and how you’ve regretted your choices, and I didn’t want you to go through that again. Let me tell you a story, yeah? So there were once two boys who grew up on the other side of the war and quite frankly wished each other dead with much fervor throughout their school years, except that war came, I mean it really came, with all the death tolls and the horror and shit, stuff that you only think of vaguely, but not really get until you actually get into it all. And so everyone was fighting like hell, and —well, fine, this is our story after all, in another lifetime—so when we met again, it was beyond awkward, because right there, you had a chance to do me in or save me but you wavered somewhat, because by that time you knew that your side was wrong but you were too cowardly to admit it in front of your mad aunt, but I still escaped. And then, of course, later, we met again in a magical room, full of sinister things, and I was there trying to get rid of something important and suddenly your idiot of a friend, Crabbe, decided that it would be a great jolly idea to set the room on fucking Dark fire. And he died, too, that git, so when I see him now I don’t feel anything for him, you see. Because he died for it and maybe he didn’t deserve that. But you lived, and you shouted at me to save you with the roaring fire all around us, and so I did, and even now, I can remember how desperate you were, how I knew, that was the moment when the war felt very real to you, and how you were scared about the choices you had made, and, gods Malfoy, maybe this time we don’t need to have the great bloody fire and we could make amends. Because we did, somewhat. At the trials when you almost renounced your ways and before your life went amok with the werewolf business. We could have been okay with that. Except we couldn’t. Except now maybe I can convince you and we don’t have to sit by the fireplace every night back at that horrid house my godfather gave to me and go out for drinks instead like normal people, in another outlandish timeline that has not quite happened yet.

Harry opens his mouth and clicks his teeth again. Shut up, he orders to himself, shut up, I can’t think, stop wringing out these memories to dry, it’s gone, over with, everything is done—

He sighs, exasperated with himself, with his ringing mind, with this stubborn boy in front of him, and says, “I dunno, Malfoy, maybe I’m just trying to make friends.” He tosses it about, flatly, like a joke and Malfoy reels back, very much taken aback, if his open mouth is any indication.

“I—you—what—Potter,” he says, after a few attempts at trying to compose himself, “You’re the one who rejected my offer in the first place. You were the one who—what was that—who told me that you’ll be the right judge of people on your own, without my help.” Malfoy tries to smear contempt in those words, but it falls flat, and his panicked face shows it. “What are you trying to do, pulling my leg with this one? I’ve seen you looking at Weasley, and that Granger—”

“I mean, Malfoy, that we could be friends once you get over your initial shock at me galloping off with giants and Mudbloods,” he says dryly, “Like I said before all this. I don’t want to watch my back for the next seven years, and we’re in the same House besides. You offered me a bloody hand to shake on, not your vow of friendship and whatnot. You have some good magical abilities in you, I’m not going to deny that and—” Harry pauses. He thinks of Fluffy (oh, a three-headed dog, it should be easily taken care of, compared to some of the other monsters and abnormalities that you've had to face over the past few years, a voice dismisses blithely, and Harry cannot help but agree) and the different trials that would soon await him, and Quirrell with his turban, bidding his time.

Malfoy is looking at him with a wary gaze. “What’s in it for me?” he says. “I’m sure it didn’t get into that fat head of yours, Potter, but you’re not exactly liked in our House. Meddling with the Gryffindors and acting like a Ravenclaw. Not very clever, I’d say.”

“You’ll have your fair share of intrigue,” Harry says carelessly, and rolls his eyes at Malfoy’s scowl. “And adventures. Mishaps. You know, being friends with the Boy-Who-Lives actually means that you’ll get near death experiences most of the time.”

 “We’re first years, Potter,” Malfoy says, with such complete disdain and confidence that Harry finally has to let out a chortle of laughter, “I—what could happen to us? And stop laughing, you great idiot, I don’t see how that’s—”

“We’re having breakfast tomorrow,” Harry tells him, and walks away from their bubble of conversation, waving his hand and pleased Malfoy had thought to cast the Muffliato Charm before striking up their conversation so that no one could have overheard their bizarre exchange of words.

Snape’s doing, he thinks, ignoring the curious glances aimed at him as he walks his way up to their dorm rooms. Well, Malfoy did mention private tutors and the like. I’d bite my head off if one of them hadn’t been Snape.

.

.

.

The fires were dying down, and the late hours of the night upon them when Harry asked, so. How did you get bitten by the werewolf?

They were drunk. They were sad, lonely, pathetic drunks sequestered in their little world, cradling whiskey and ignoring the foul wind outside. They had been bickering as usual, saying everything in the spaces of nothing, and Harry had offered drinks as a peace treaty never quite voiced and Malfoy had accepted. And they drank until their sorrows diluted, when death was kept at bay and they could be relaxed, dismissive even. Harry had cracked a joke about the poor state of the new Hogwarts generation, and it was crude and awful, but Malfoy had snickered and replied off-handedly that what they needed was another war to straighten them out. They both laughed themselves silly at that, a sad state of comradeship that came only when they were too drunk to care, and the next day they would all be quick to deny what passed between them. But it was still night. And then later. His vision was blurred and he squinted at Malfoy, who was sitting on the opposite side of the armchair, his eyes fixated into the fire, lost in memories that Harry knew better than to ask. So he asked another invasive question. Tell me about the werewolf. Softly, cajoling.

Why do you care, Malfoy said bitterly, but it was without the usual poison and bite. Malfoy would later say, something was in the spirits, something that made me lose my marbles with you, there won’t be another time like this, Potter. But that night, besides the crackling fire, Malfoy was sufficiently drunk enough to drawl out, Why do you even ask. It was coy, inviting almost, and Harry took his chance.

Just. Curious. Harry stopped, wondering if that was the right word. It shouldn’t have happened to you, he offered a second later, too little, too late. Those were not words of comfort and Malfoy had laughed at him.

You’re the only one who thinks so, Malfoy said, The others reckon I deserved it, served me right…the war, that giant werewolf was my father’s dinner guest once, did you know? He popped in a few times after that too, foul creature that he was.  
Yes, Harry did not answer, yes, I did know.

Peacetime was hard for him, I suppose, Malfoy mused, emotion gone from his voice, his eyes lost, there’s not much a notorious werewolf can do before it goes berserk and starts to bite people. He must have thought I had it easy, these past ten years…

Didn't you? Harry asked.

Malfoy gave out a harsh laugh. Potter, if the war made you a right wreck and by the looks of it, it still has, what makes you think it had been kinder to me? I was only freed because of that grand speech you lashed out to the entire court. I kept my head hidden well after that—and you—

Malfoy stopped, rubbing his eyes with one of his hands. He sounded tired. No use rehashing out old ghosts. Potter. I’ve said this once and I will continue to say it again. I don’t know why you’re doing this, what you actually want. What is wrong with you.  Malfoy tore his eyes from the fireplace then, and he stared at Harry, and he was locked into that brooding, raging gaze, and he could not answer immediately, even when Malfoy repeated the words.

Potter, why did you take me in. You could have left me to rot. There has never been any love lost between us.

Harry had been tired that night. He had always been, of course, but that night he was thinking of the dreams that would soon curse him, the voices that would soon ring with laughter, and he stared back, almost defeated, and said with a hollow voice, I don’t know, Malfoy. Maybe I was hoping you would kill me one night, go mad in this stupid house. Bite my neck while I’m unaware. What do you want me to say. You’re right, there’s no love lost between us, I’m not going to say I’m showing compassion and mercy because I don’t feel up for such nice things these days and you’re here because I hated you and now I am hoping you would—do something to me.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, brought out a dangerous glint that Harry had not seen for a very long time.

Malfoy is angry, Harry realized.

Ah, Malfoy said softly. I see. You want me to hurt you, Potter. You think that I would. That after all this, after all these years, that I would want to kill you. When I never had, not even during that blasted war of ours.

Harry said, recklessly, No, not you, but the wolf—

And then, in a flash, Malfoy was upon him, pinning him down to his chair, his bony fingers digging Harry’s shoulders hard like claws, hard enough to make him wince, and Harry was left staring at Malfoy’s wide, bloodshot eyes. Malfoy snarled,

Good god, Potter, some days you’re deranged and batshit crazy, locking yourself up in this pathetic house when you’ve got a choice, while I’ve got none and other days you border on a level of insanity that those lunatics have at St. Mungo’s and I’m left wondering why you’re not there already. The wolf _is_ me, Potter, the wolf doesn’t want to kill you, not if I don’t want it to, not when I’m trying to control it, and I am, I am doing a mighty fucking fine job of keeping this monster at bay while you wallow up in your sorry state as the martyr and savior of this fucking wizarding world—Potter, you could do something out there, do you know that? And here you are, just here, always here in this maddening house and driving me up the wall, asking me to bite you, to mangle you, to kill you—would you like that, Potter?

With each word, Malfoy had his face inch closer and closer to his until Harry could hear Malfoy’s heartbeat, a rapid _thumpthumpthump_ , a signal that he was alive and well and mighty furious at Harry. Harry noted Malfoy’s wide pupils, dancing along with the dying firelight, and how strong his hands were, how terse he held his body, ready for an attack.

What are you trying to do, Potter? What is it that you want?

Malfoy whispered to him, those harsh words close to his throat, and Harry had let his head fall back. He closed his eyes and said, yielding to his exhaustion,

I’m just trying to deal with my ghosts the only way I know how, Malfoy. I’ve never known any other way.

He left out, in those gaping spaces: In the war, I did not learn how to kill, how to maim others, how to destruct. I only knew how to walk forward in a dark forest, with the ghosts of my parents and prepared myself to die. I was told that my death would save this world. And so it had, and yet here I am, once again alive. I steeled myself for death and it did not come. I was happy then, when everything was over. So I have a life now, I thought, I could move on. But now. I am left bereft, gaping, and to fill this hole I am only seeking closure.

Everything that he wished to say, he swallowed deep inside him.

Malfoy froze above him, as if he had heard the silence like it was comprised of words, as if Malfoy had pieced together his words between those voids, and a long moment passed between them before Malfoy eased himself up. He stepped away, back to his place, back to the safe distance between them, and all the while Harry knew this from the soft padding footsteps and the creak of the armchair. He did not open his eyes as Malfoy said, with the same defeated tone,

You and me both, Potter. You and me both.

.

.

.

“So,” Harry says brightly the next morning, dragging a very reluctant Malfoy over to the Gryffindor table, “This is Draco Malfoy. Ron Weasley, and here is—oh, Hermione. Just in time.”

He waves at a very perplexed looking Hermione and gestures to the empty seat besides Ron. Malfoy makes a strangled sound and chooses to demolish his toast violently. Hermione sits with with a wary look at Malfoy. What an odd sort of group they are making. Malfoy is not acknowledging the whispers and the stares coming their way, as he slides into his seat further and chooses instead to vent out his anger towards his breakfast dish throughout a good portion of the meal. Harry lets him have his sulk as he chats to Ron and Hermione, unperturbed. They give him equally bewildered looks, but both answer easily, talking about inconsequential things, careful to not mention the other boy sitting next to Harry.

“When you meant breakfast, Potty,” Malfoy finally says to his barely eaten plate, “I thought breakfast at the Slytherin table. Like what we are supposed to do. Instead of mingling with rotten apples.”

“You can shove off, Malfoy, no one’s stopping you,” Ron says, suddenly all belligerent and sharp.

“Ron,” Harry warns, and Ron shuts his mouth, although he continues to look sullen, “and Malfoy. Knock it off, we’re already here, aren’t we? We’re here to talk about some important things and I was wondering when you’d join us—”

“Why is she here?” Malfoy interrupts, and gestures at Hermione, who merely raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms, “When I said that I would think about some things, I meant in small steps, Potter, not—”

“Malfoy, we’re here to be friends and make amends, you can have your pureblood crisis later,” Harry says, his words lighter than he means them to be. This might not be a great idea after all, he had never done this before, quite an unorthodox route this, and with Quirrell on the loose… “Look, this is how we’ll start. Ron, you can apologize to Hermione for—”

“Already did,” Ron interrupts, with a quick, abashed look at Hermione, who rolls her eyes but nods in agreement, “I. er, last night. Right after the troll, we had a little talk and—all cleared up. No problems on this side.” He gives a small shrug as if isn’t a big deal, but his red ears betray him, which only grow redder when Harry grins at him widely.

“Great,” he says, beaming, “Real swell, so that’s one thing out of the way—”

“So you really did take down that bloody troll last night,” Malfoy says, looking for all the world like a petulant and spoilt kid, “What are you, Potter, some kind of glory hoarder? Can’t even go a day without looking for trouble, can you?”

“He saved my life, if you must know!” Ron says angrily, his eyes narrowing towards Malfoy with intense dislike. “What—what is he even doing here?”

“Well, we’re friends now,” Harry says, with as much cordiality as he could muster for his former enemy, “Since last night, in fact. We also had a little chat, got a few things sorted out.”

“You are?” Ron and Hermione both says at once, one outraged and the other bemused.

“We are?” Malfoy says, looking half-disgusted, half-amused.

“We are,” Harry confirms, trying to feel half as confident as he sounds like. He bumps Malfoy’s shoulder and ignores Malfoy’s indignant squawk. “So, now that’s all settled, we could…er. Talk. Apologize, in our own good time. Later, I meant,” he says with great haste when Malfoy opens his mouth, no doubt to say something insulting about Gryffindors, blood traitors and Muggleborns, perhaps all at once. “There are other things to discuss.”

“Like what?” Malfoy says snidely, while at the same time, Ron looks at Malfoy with a calculating look and ventures out, “Like Quirrell?”

Harry grins at Ron again, and this time Ron returns it without any effort on his part. “Yeah, like him, for starters.” He gives a quick look at Hermione, who seems to be following their line of thought without much difficulty. Ron must have told her, he thinks, warmth spreading inside him. “What did you hear that made you so sure he’s out to kill me?”

“He’s out to—Merlin, you think the most delusional things, Potter,” Malfoy says. He takes out his wand and sneers at the tense, wary look Ron throws at him. “I have better things to do than hex you while the entire staff is watching, Weasley. _Muffliato.”_

“Good one, Malfoy,” Harry says. Malfoy only redirects his sneer at him and tucks his wand away with more flourish than necessary.

“Where did you learn that?” Hermione looks impressed and envious all at once, and she shoots a look between Malfoy and Harry, puzzled. “Is that a Slytherin thing? We haven’t learned anything of the sort yet, just simple spells, and—”

“Malfoys have their own private tutors and the like,” Ron says, scowling at Malfoy, who only smirks at him, “And Harry—er, I mean he’s the Boy-Who-Lived, so I’ll bet he must have had some sort of—”

“I was raised by Muggles,” Harry says easily, “And Malfoy is awful good at practical spells, but I’ll bet you’ll come out on top by the end of the year, don’t fret over it, Hermione.”

Hermione gaps at him, a bit taken aback by his sheer confidence in her, while Malfoy mutters about famous gits and their failed ambitions of becoming a crackling mad Seer before he leans back and scoffs.

“So—why Quirrell? He’s just a stammering buffoon, isn’t he? Why in the world would he be out to get Potter?”

“That’s what I thought too, yeah.” Ron nods and looks nervously at the staff table, where Quirrell is picking at his eggs with a pale face and shaking hands. “I mean, barmy, right, but quite harmless. You’d think. But I was happening to pass by an empty classroom the other day, you see, and Quirrell was there, not talking like he usually was. He didn’t have that stutter, for one.”

“What else?” Harry asks, while Malfoy straightens up in his seat, looking interested despite himself.

“And—he was talking to another voice. But there was only him in that classroom, that’s the funny thing. The other voice, it was a low voice. Very smooth. He was chuckling under his breath, and saying your name.” Ron looks stricken, shaking his head. “And he was whispering that he was going to do you in, right after he used you to get what he wanted—”

“But what would he want?” Malfoy interrupts with a scowl, “And your wordings are vague, Weasley. He could have just been having a fit, or maybe he’s a real nutter and Dumbledore’s the one who should be questioned…”

“Hush, you,” Harry says, his blood running cold. “He—he said that he needed me before he—killed me? Did me in? For what, though?”

“Well, I—er, okay. Maybe this isn’t the place to start out. I’ve been going around the castle sometimes, for, er, a few weeks, just out for a walk, nothing serious, really, and one time I got lost in the third-floor corridors on the right, quite a nasty experience—”

“Professor Dumbledore told us not to go there when term started!” Hermione gasps, and Ron shoots her a defiant look. “I got lost, alright?” he hisses, “And good luck that I did too, because I happened to see Quirrell there, and Snape—and then there was this huge, giant three-headed dog inside this crowded little room—”

“There’s a monster in the school?” Malfoy looks horrified.

Well, there’s also a Basilisk down in the Chamber of Secrets, but don’t let that bother you, until I actually need your help for it. Harry manages to hold his tongue and ignores Malfoy, giving Ron an encouraging nod. “Yes, and…?”

“Yeah, and that’s when I thought, Quirrell or Snape, one of them might be up to something, because when they were talking, they didn’t seem to be on the same side, and then of course at first I thought it would have been Snape, since, well, you know.” Ron throws a quick, guilty look at Harry and he mockingly frowns at him, mouthing, _Slytherin_. Malfoy snorts.

“Yeah, well, that. But then Quirrell was acting mighty strange in that empty classroom, talking about how only _you_ could get the Stone out of the Mirror, Harry, and Quirrell was muttering something about a troll, and this is all before Halloween, mind you, so if I thought he was out of his rocker before, now I guess I know better. I knew when the troll came in last night and Quirell was throwing a mighty fake fit over it—he might be for real. So yeah.” Ron takes a deep breath and lets out a faint chuckle. “That was why I was in such a mad rush to get down to the dungeons. ‘Cause, you know. He might have gotten to you already.”

Harry stares at Ron, at a loss for words. Malfoy, however, is quick to look around before leaning forward with a skeptical air.

“We don’t know about that, Weasley,” he says, “Let’s say that your maddening theory is right, and that Quirrell might have let the troll in, _might_ have a go at Potter here. But what is he talking about with a Stone and a Mirror? That’s a cryptic set of rambles, isn’t it?”

“The dog is guarding the Stone and the Mirror, I’ll bet,” Hermione jumps in at once, and although Malfoy throws her a repulsed look, he doesn’t comment, “Because that’s what Cerberuses do, don’t they? The dog—it’s guarding something vital, and Professor Quirrell is out to get it.”

Harry taps his fingers as the conversation rolls forth, his heart beating with unease. There is something quite off here, he thinks. Voldemort had known about the Stone in his first year, yes, but he did not yet know how to get it…did not know whether Harry would even come after him to thwart his plans…Voldemort shouldn’t know that the Mirror would lead to the Stone…

“Harry?” Hermione says tentatively, and Harry jerks up.

“The dog’s guarding the Philosopher’s Stone,” Harry says, and Ron and Malfoy stops arguing at once, giving him identically baffled looks. “And the Stone’s protected with the Mirror of Erised—it’s supposed to show you what you really desire—”

“And you know this, _how_?” Malfoy stresses, but Harry flaps a hand at him for the moment, continuing.

“And I think Ron’s right, Quirrell is sounding fishy, and dangerous, but I don’t think—I mean, I’m not sure how dangerous because he’s moving forth awfully fast…”

“Is he?” Ron looks confused. “So is there a time frame for this, then? Get this Stone, kill you, and then get us to take our exams before he takes a nice long vacation?”

“It’s nothing to joke about, Ronald,” Hermione immediately chides, while it has Malfoy breaking out into a nasty grin.

“I. Er.” Harry shakes his head. “No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just. Quirrell isn’t really paying attention when he’s dropping his act, is he? Not if any old first year can hear him out in the open, not that you’re just any—I mean—”

But Ron isn’t just any old first year, Harry thinks with a cold sense of dread. He’s Harry’s best friend.

Just before Harry can point this out, a voice comes out from behind them.

“I-It’s so nice to se-see,” Quirrell says, and Harry, with his shaking hand, quickly dispels the silencing charm with a sickening feeling, “H—how this year’s f-first years are g-getting along nicely. G-Gryffindors and Sly-Slytherins. I n-never t-thought I would see t-the day. D-did you, Severus?”

He turns around and cranes his neck.

Quirrell, for all his stuttering glory, is not looking like his cowering, pitiful self. He is staring directly at Harry, looking at him with intense eyes that—if Harry tilts his head just right, and at just the right moment—glows into a vibrant, familiar hue. He looks, and Quirrell sees how Harry looks, and how Harry’s eyes grow wider, and then, and then.

Quirrell allows a small smirk to grace his lips.

A mere second, and it disappears, as quickly as it comes; and before Harry can scream or even take out his wand, he is back to his quivering mess, a blubbering idiot. Snape steps into view just then, looking at each of them with a sneer, taking particular note at Malfoy and Harry. Ron and Hermione quickly look away, while Malfoy looks somewhat abashed. He only jerks up instinctively to look at Snape’s face, his mind whirling at the shadow of Quirrell’s smirk. Snape’s lips curl when their eyes meet; Snape only holds pure contempt for him, there is nothing new there, and Harry needs something recognizable right now, to hold him in place. He feels as if he is about to burst. _He needs his wand_. He must kill—he must—

“Quite nice,” Snape sneers, his words clearly emphasizing how unlikely he found it so, “And quite unexpected. As cozy as it must be to be embraced by other Houses, you are causing a scene. Mr. Malfoy, Potter. If you are ever in need of House conversion, pray let the Headmaster know first.”

“Professor, this isn’t what—”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry says automatically, still training his eyes to Snape’s deliberately, almost imploringly—look into my head, rifle through my head, you bastard, Quirrell is Voldemort, Quirrell is Voldemort and he is showing himself to me—“I bullied Malfoy to sit with me. Not his fault at all, sir.”

“I had already gathered,” Snape says coolly. “Well, come along, Quirrell. You and I have things to discuss before we head off to our respective classes.”

And Snape—blasted, arrogant git that he is—turns away, not even bothering to graze across his head and Harry grits his teeth at him, thinking fiercely, coward, coward, _coward_ —

“I—I shall see y-you in class, t-then.” Quirrell jerks his head at the rest of them, before lingering on his face. “M-Mr. Potter.” Harry might have waved off the smirk on that peculiar face as a trick of the light or his desperation to see things, but as he once again sees the undeniable reddening pupils and the pale, grotesque face, he lets out a suppressed gasp. Quirrell smiles at him thinly, his eyes burning, before Harry reels back violently as Voldemort’s face leers at him. He stares.

_He knows._

_He knows who I am, what I am, what is inside me._

Because—and as Quirrell turns away and stumbles forth to the snickers of other students, and as Harry runs a shaking hand through his hair and tries to breathe steadily, as Ron and Hermione look increasingly worried, and even Malfoy throws him a look, as Ron asks him, what’s wrong Harry, did Quirrell do something to you, and while Harry is trying to open his mouth to ask, didn’t you see him, his face, his eyes, the way they glowed, he remembers me—

He sees him in his mind, Quirrell’s lips moving, barely mouthing the words,

My Horcrux.

.

.

.

Harry dreams about Malfoy, dreaming about Tom Riddle, still in that grey, bare room, still sipping his tea, waiting,

 

Why are you summoning me here? Malfoy snarls, and he is more feral than the last time Harry has seen him. Still in his rags, Malfoy is undernourished and has a brutal air around him. Malfoy stalks across the room, keeping an eye on Riddle. Riddle shrugs and does not answer, and Harry is somewhere in-between, hovering between them, observing how thin and parched the blond boy looks, how desperate.  

Malfoy does not see him, but Riddle does, and Riddle narrows his eyes as Harry continues to study Malfoy. Riddle frowns.

Well? I know that I’m not here voluntarily. You’re dragging me to this blasted place. This—this room. What is this room?

You’ll have to ask Harry that, I’m afraid, Riddle is saying, still a frown on his face. That boy is not known for his creativity, after all, Conqueror of the Dark Lord or not.

Harry throws a quick glance at him and freezes when their eyes meet, but Riddle does not banish him like the last time. Riddle instead tilts his head, with his eyes almost into slits, as if he is pondering a particular difficult puzzle. Harry frowns.

Potter? Oh, believe me, I would ask him—fucking Potter, he—if he is even alive at this point, he’s not, though, that’s the thing—

Oh, he is. Riddle’s voice is flat, but Harry still can detect annoyance laced into his words, He’s alive and fine, which I think we’ve covered last time.

I wouldn’t be here, Malfoy snaps, already his wand drawn again, but stops himself at the last moment, taking in Riddle’s cold smile and the bare surroundings of his room. Malfoy curses again.

I’ve waited for weeks now, and—I wouldn’t be here, he repeats, in—in here, in this blasted prison if Potter is alive—

Ah, Riddle says pleasantly, you think that Harry would try to rescue you out of Azkaban straightaway? Have you that much faith in him, young Malfoy?

Malfoy turns to him with a growl.

Careful, careful. Your breeding is showing.

Malfoy pauses. He scowls but straightens up, tucks the wand away and looks around the room with his haughty chin raised. He looks on at Riddle with intense dislike, but he is careful to hide away the rest of the thoughts that he might feel.

Riddle smiles. Ah, good, he says. Now we can talk.

You call him Harry, Malfoy says, a sneer on his lips. It goes horribly with his wretched state, but Harry admires him for it, nevertheless, why do you do that? It’s exasperating and doesn't have the effect you hope for. Whatever it is that you hope for. Potter kills you in your lifetime, do you know that?

Perhaps I feel overtly fond of the boy, Riddle says dryly. Harry frowns and looks over at Riddle sharply, but Riddle only stirs his tea in a languid manner.

I don’t see how that would come about, seeing that you’ve tried to murder him since he was a baby, Malfoy sneers.

Why, Malfoy. Riddle says, matching sneer for sneer, finally standing up, you’re here in this room with the future Dark Lord, and all you can talk about is Harry Potter. Where he might be, whether he is alive, what I choose to call him. Those are all such trifling questions, are they not? When you have yourself to think about.

Riddle gives him a contemptuous smile. I may have tried to kill him, he says, but…circumstances have changed. In this dreamscape of course. We are still talking inside a dream, and according to your sources, I, and Riddle gives out a mock bow, am dead. Killed by that boy.

Malfoy looks murderous for a moment, but he seems to know how Riddle’s eyes are constantly shifting to a blank space across the wall. Malfoy sharply turns, and Malfoy is looking at Harry, looking through him, and Harry mouths loudly, Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy—

Is he here? Malfoy says, his eyes fixing intently on where Harry is, but not seeing him at all, is Potter here?

There is no one here except us, Riddle says, but Malfoy whips around again to pin Riddle with a glare.

You’re staring at the wall across from him, Malfoy says softly, and you have that look. A hungry look about you.

Riddle, for the first time, does not look aloof and mildly amused. He snaps his eyes and focuses fully on Malfoy, who is now smirking. Harry stares at them both.

I notice things, you see, _young_ Dark Lord, Malfoy mocks. You lack the subtlety that Voldemort once had.

Riddle lets out a low hiss.

You think you’re very brave, saying that name, Riddle says. His voice is barely above a whisper. You think you’re safe now, do you, with my future self gone and vanquished, with Harry Potter at your side…tell me, boy, how does it feel to be at Harry Potter’s beck and call?

Malfoy’s smirk falls slightly off but he holds up his chin as he sneers. You haven’t set the standards very high when I was once down at your heels, _my Lord._

Riddle snarls. In a flash, he has his wand out, and Harry whips out his own, and he raises it before Riddle can attack first.

Their wands meet, but he is a moment too late.

The room bursts into white with Riddle’s spell.

Malfoy screams, and screams, and screams.

Malfoy, Harry shouts, trying to reach out and grab Malfoy’s arm; there was no saving him now, except for,

Malfoy, wake up, wake up—

Harry.

And he is whirled around, facing Riddle’s hungry eyes, his pale, sinister face, as Riddle grips his arm painfully, with a wand at his forehead. Riddle smiles, cooing,

You have other places to be, Harry, other things you must save before it is too late, until you finally understand that there is nothing you can save at all…

Harry tries to pull out of the grasp, but Riddle only holds him tighter, drawing him nearer, his voice a hissing whisper,

Harry Potter, tell me, Master of Death, Conqueror of the Dark Lord,

And Riddle does not continue on his sentence immediately; he is too busy laughing and Malfoy is too busy screaming, and he is too shaken by this encounter to fully understand Riddle’s words.

Tell me, Riddle finally says, his grin maniac and violent, his handsome dark eyes now tinged with darkened hue, do you truly know what the Master of Death can do, or what each of the three Hallows can achieve individually, have you given such matters much thought, Harry?

Harry stares at Riddle blankly.

I thought not, Riddle chuckles softly. Truly, and I thought you were brilliant, perhaps, wanting to go back, to change something—I thought you glorious, terribly foolhardy, but nevertheless…but I was wrong about you, just as I have always been—

Death sent me back in time, Harry manages. That’s one thing he can do—and you, you’re dead, Riddle, Voldemort’s dead, I killed you once, I killed you all, your souls, all of them—

Let us not have repeating arguments, this is getting tedious, Harry thinks derisively.

Riddle smiles, and only says,

You are a fool, Harry Potter; if you can only remember…out of those Hallows, surely you must remember what I possessed…

Harry does remember after a second, and he tries to open his mouth to say

But you did not care for anyone, there is no one you would have resurrected, no one dear enough—

and he pauses, and thinks, and understands,

 

but there was never only one of you.

He looks into Riddle’s eyes, not feeling shocked, or overwhelmed, but only ponders, is that possible? He is left feeling strangely empty and hollow. But how? he does not ask. But when? he does not demand. He mindscape is a festering wound upon him. He only repeats wearily, stupidly,

But you died. You didn’t have the chance to use your ring. The Resurrection Stone meant nothing to you in your lifetime save for its Gaunt heritage.

Riddle curls his lips. A hand reaches out to brush his cheek as Riddle lowers his wand.

No, Harry repeats. You’re dead. A dead man can’t use that ring—that Stone—to bring back his own dead corpse.

Yes, and this is your dream. And I exist only in your dreams, it seems. Riddle’s voice is soft, almost tender, and Harry does his best not to flinch away, his eyes boring into Riddle’s,

But souls are complicated things, and you once held my soul, and I held a part of you once by flesh and blood. Perhaps I do not understand much of Dumbledore’s old trickery and his foolish tales of love. But there are things that the old man had never understood either. He has never understood how souls can split, for one, and Death would be another. Because, you see, Harry,

Riddle shrugs carelessly, and his touch falls away.

you do not understand the things you do not fear. And Dumbledore has never feared death.

Harry listens for Malfoy’s screams. They are no longer there; Malfoy has gone. To his haunted prison, where only the prisoners would now hear his screams.

Riddle smiles at Harry, and he says,

I think it’s best if you remember this dream, Harry. Perhaps you may do something with it, perhaps not. But Death, he is a whimsical fellow, and I admit, I have never been quite patient…

 

Harry slowly opens his eyes. He stays up for the rest of the night, while listening to the children snoring around him, and remembers Malfoy’s pinched face, Riddle’s elation. He stays silent and restless until dawn breaks out.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

> _The second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead…_
> 
> … _he journeyed to his own home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his delight, the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry before her untimely death, appeared at once before him._ _Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered. Finally, the second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, killed himself so as truly to join her._
> 
> _And so Death took the second brother for his own._

 

As soon as the library opens, he takes out _The Tales of Beedle and the Bard_ under the watchful eyes of Madam Pince, and rereads the story of the Three Brothers, his eyes burning with fatigue. He rubs his forehead as he reads; an old habit he had never quite managed to get rid of when he feels agitated. He wishes the scar would burn, so that he might at least know what to prepare for, what to expect. Riddle’s voice echoes in his ears; never had he heard Riddle’s voice sound so exhilarated, almost fond in his dreams; not even in the early days, when he was baiting Harry about inconsequential things. He grips the cover of the book and glares resolutely at the text. There must be something in here worth pursuing, he thinks, about the stone’s properties. What Riddle had told him, it could have been nothing, of course; it could be a trap, all of it, and perhaps he had only imagined Quirrell’s face…

He shakes his head. No, he couldn’t have mistaken those eyes, it had left him shivering so hard that Hermione and Ron had forcefully dragged him to the hospital wing, where Harry had told the scolding nurse about recurring nightmares and the like. Malfoy had trotted behind them, loudly informed Madam Pomfrey that Harry often mumbled in his sleep and screamed a bloodthirsty murder, leading to more fussing and having Harry glaring at a very smug Malfoy. He had been saddled with a Calming Draught and stayed the rest of the day in the hospital ward, nodding off to sleep, and then, just as soon as he became unguarded, Riddle had slipped into his dream and posed damning questions.

Harry sighs and taps his wand; the clock ticks, and it shows that it is time for breakfast. He stands up and trudges out of the library, still in his hospital gown, heading off to the Great Hall.

Ron and Hermione— _and Malfoy_ —are sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table. Harry stops, very much taken aback, when Hermione jerks her head up from whatever it was they were talking about, and spots him.

“Harry!” she squeals, looking at his robes. “How are you feel—you’re supposed to be at the hospital wing! Your robes, Harry!”

“And when was Potter known to follow directions?” Malfoy mutters, giving him a strange look when Harry slides into an empty seat, giving Hermione and Ron a cursory nod and focusing on Malfoy. “Something got your tongue, Potter?”

He reaches out instead of an answer, and Malfoy stares at him askance, but he does not flinch away when Harry touches his wrist lightly. He traces down the inner forearm—where the Mark should be—and looks at the young boy, erases the Malfoy in prison out of his mind. He shuts out Malfoy’s screams.

For now.

He can only hope.

“Madam Pomfrey let me out early,” he says, breaking away his gaze from Malfoy and smiling at his friends from across the table. Both had seen the exchange, but other than Ron’s confused frown, they do not mention his peculiar action. He is grateful for their discretion, their tact. He allows an easy smile to slip on his face and says cheerfully, “So, anything I missed?”

“Well, Snape’s still glaring at our way,” Ron says, plucking a hot muffin from a fresh basket that has been put forth, “And Malfoy’s been going mad, babbling about curses—”

“I have _not_ ,” Malfoy interjects.

“We’ve been worried, Harry,” Hermione says for them all, her frown putting wrinkles in her forehead, “Quirrell was only looking at you, and you just went all…funny.”

“It happens to me sometimes,” he says easily enough, and ignores Malfoy’s sidelong look, shrugging, “It’s—it’s my scar. It sometimes acts out.”

“It always acts out, you keep rubbing that bloody scar wherever you go,” Malfoy mutters, and squints at the book Harry is now holding, “And—did you sneak out of the hospital wing just to get yourself a library book, Potter? And a children’s book at that?”

“Yeah, Malfoy, they help me sleep, you see,” Harry says, pushing the battered book across the table. “What do you know about old wizarding tales?”

“That they’re a lot of hogwash,” Malfoy sneers, without wasting a breath, “Just like how the Philosopher’s Stone is. It doesn’t exist, Potter, we’ve ransacked the library over it the moment you swooned like a fair maiden. Pince was having a fit.”

Harry rolls his eyes at him. “If you look under Nicholas Flamel—”

“It does exist, Malfoy’s just being dramatic,” Hermione says hastily, “It just…no one’s seen it for so long that it doesn’t seem to be verifiable, that’s all. But it fits, from what Ron’s been telling us, and from what—”

“And Weasley’s a mess in the head too, forgot to mention that bit.”

“Watch it Malfoy—” Ron snarls, almost ready to leap off his seat, but Harry gets there first.

“ _Silencio_.”

He snaps his fingers. Malfoy and Ron open and close their mouth furiously, but to no avail. Hermione looks on, exasperated.

“Hermione?” Harry prompts, and this time, Ron and Malfoy become united in their efforts to shoot mutinous glares towards Harry’s way.

“I—yes, as I was saying, the Philosopher’s Stone is a thing of legend, old midwives’ tales, but it _has_ been created by Nicolas Flamel in the 1300s, we’ve searched that up yesterday after hours of looking, mind, and no one has been able to recreate its true properties since. That seems to have made it difficult for other wizards to take the Stone seriously—there aren’t many books trying to detail what the Stone can do, or what its limitations are, and Flamel isn’t very forthcoming with his researches. The Stone is known to be used to create the Elixir of Life, which could extend the drinker’s lifespan, but not make the drinker truly immortal…I think that was about it. All we’ve found, at least, for the time being. It’s very obscure, but certainly valuable enough for the dog to guard it. Why would Quirrell want the Stone, though?”

Ron turns his head to Hermione and mouths his words slowly and clearly, ‘I wonder why anyone would want something like that,’ and Hermione grimaces at Ron’s half-eaten muffin inside his mouth. She amends, “I mean…it’s a great Stone, surely, but he’s just our Defense Professor, and if he’s out to get Harry—”

Malfoy makes a wild gesture with his hands, and Harry relents with a sigh and waves away the Silencing Charm. As soon as Malfoy is able to speak, he dives in for the kill. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Quirrell’s one of the Dark Lord’s followers and is clearly out to get Potter after delivering the Stone to his master. He would kill Potter first, if he could, but Potty here is everyone’s favorite star student, so Dumbledore would have a fit. Which wouldn’t fit nicely with the Dark Lord’s plans.”

Ron gapes and Hermione emits out a loud gasp, and even Harry has to raise an eyebrow at that.

“I thought you said most of my stories were half-delusional,” he says.

“That was before you fainted and Quirrell looked at you like that,” Malfoy replies, and Harry thinks, _did he see the face_ —and something must have shown in Harry’s expression, because Malfoy lifts up his chin and for the first time, he looks nervously about before lowering his voice. Ron and Hermione lean in closer to hear.  

“I didn’t see what he was doing, but I know an advanced Confounding Charm when I see one. Quirrell obviously showed Potter what he wanted him to see, and then Potter went and had his little fainting fit. And Confounding Charms aren’t known for their defensive properties, to put it lightly. It’s a nice bit of Dark magic.”

‘Harry,’ Ron mouths, and he lifts off the charm from Ron as well. “Thanks,” Ron grumbles, rubbing his throat, “Okay, fine, we’ve established that we’ve got You-Know-Who’s supporters here with us, glad to have that covered.”

“Ron,” Harry says, a tad exasperated.

“No, that wasn’t what I was about to say. Merlin. I think Malfoy has a point, though. Quirrell’s just a harmless old bugger if he’s operating alone, but if he’s one of You-Know-Who’s followers…”

“He could be bringing You-Know-Who back to life again,” Hermione finished quietly. She looks anxious. “Oh, I didn’t think—well, that’s not very—”

“Exciting to be around me, isn’t it,” he says to Malfoy cheerfully, “Told you there would be intrigue and adventure following with the Boy-Who-Lived title.”

“Harry, we’re talking about your life here,” Hermione hisses, but Malfoy gives him a smirk and shrugs.

“You have your uses now and then,” Malfoy says, as if his life was nothing more than a mild amusement to be tinkered with. His eyes glitter in cold mirth, and Harry does not know whether he is joking. For a child, Malfoy is sharp to keep his emotions at bay. He now nods to _The Tales of Beedle and the Bard_ lying innocuously on the table. “So. Are you now going to tell us why you’ve decided to bring out a children’s book and share it with us while I’ve been slaving about with Weasel and Granger?”

“You’ve been slaving—” Ron starts off hotly, but Harry just laughs and shakes his head.

“Have you two,” he starts, looking back and forth between Ron and Malfoy, “ever heard of the Tale of the Three Brothers?”

And Hermione leans in, curious and wide-eyed, as the two boys glower at each other, daring the other to start first.

.

.

.

Not once upon a time.

 

Ron and Hermione sat in one end of the table while Malfoy and he sat at the other end, and they ate silently and sullenly, because Harry’s friends were wonderful and they worried about him, and they had often cajoled him to eat more, and it would be one of those days when they burst into his house to try to save him. This was one lousy Saturday afternoon, and so he obliged them, chewing and swallowing, while Malfoy picked on his own food, looking cold and withdrawn. He looked down at his plate and no one paid any attention to him, and Harry was tired of this hostile silence, and so he said loudly, do you guys have work tomorrow, we should all drink before you go.

Malfoy, without looking up from his plate, said, that would be a terrible idea, Potter, considering the last time we drank and it ended in a disaster. He did not mention how it always ended in a disaster with the two of them, but Harry caught on the sentiment from his scornful jeer.

Ron said, taken aback, Harry, if you wanted to drink, you could have just asked, instead of just wallowing here. Do you want to hit up Neville, too?

Harry gave a little shrug, not a yes or a no, and Ron looked at him worryingly. He suggested with his eyes, mate, Malfoy, seriously, he’s your drinking chap? Why would you go ahead and drink with Malfoy of all people?

Weasley, pay attention, he said he had been drinking here, he doesn’t want to hang around your little gang of Auror friends down at a ratty little pub somewhere, Malfoy said. And there was the old flouting tone that Malfoy had used, when they were young and they were cruel to each other, and it should have been like the old times when Malfoy said those words—only it was not. If it had been the good old hateful days, they would not be here, in Harry’s sorry sad house.

Ron snapped, I know what Harry was implying, Malfoy, I know Harry better than you ever did, get lost to where you came out from, will you, and let me handle this.

Hermione said, placating, Ron—

Do you now, Weasley? Do you know Potter that well? Been checking him up quite a bit, have you? Malfoy laughed a little, and it was a mocking, disparaging laugh, a brief spittle. It only served to enrage Ron further as he snarled,

We’re his friends, Malfoy, until you, you—you’re not even supposed to be here, you’re only here because Harry—

Yes, yes. Let’s talk about Saint Potter, shall we? Because it’s never a tiring subject. He saves people who don’t deserve it, even me, isn’t that what you were about to say? But Weasley, you don’t seem to know how pathetic Potter acts these days. Don’t catch up on him, do you? I hardly see him go out, and you’re too busy playing hero, you wouldn’t know.

Ron’s face was deadly by then, his voice a soft growl. Malfoy, I’m warning you—

But you don’t know the first thing about Potter. I’m just here telling you the cold, hard facts. Potter’s not right in the head, you see. Did you know, for instance, that Potter is a delusional lunatic who has parental issues and obsessive behavior and anger management problems? Did you know that his nightmares are stuff that would drive most people crazy, with his shouts and wails in the middle of the night? You friend’s a goner, Weasley, just like the rest of your sorry family—

SHUT UP, Ron yelled, and he jumped out of his chair, storming over to Malfoy’s side of the table, wand forgotten, rationale gone, and Harry sat in his chair, looking at his half-eaten pile of food, feeling cold and dead, thinking, am I truly that damaged, am I that gone, am I, am I.

Harry? Hermione shook his shoulder roughly, standing up herself and shouting, Ron, that isn’t helping, let go of Malfoy, STOP THAT AT ONCE—

WHOSE FAULT IS THAT? Ron yelled, fisting the front collar of Malfoy’s robes, wringing Malfoy like he was a rag doll. Malfoy looked at him with contempt but he did not attempt to free nor defend himself. WHOSE FAULT IS THAT MALFOY? YOU CAN’T JUST STAND THERE AND TELL ME THAT SOME OF IT WASN’T YOUR DOING, YOU FLITHY—

Ron, Hermione cried, rushing up to Ron’s side and trying to tug his hand away, and Harry sat, watching them, detached and cold,

Malfoy laughed, bitter and worn, but it seemed as only if Harry could sense the defeat in his voice when he answered, it’s not my doing, Weasley, Potter was always a bit off his head.

And Ron, finally understanding that yes, he was a wizard, and yes, he had a wand, now raised up his hand and—

_Stop._

A white shield went up between Ron and Malfoy and broke them apart, and Ron staggered into Hermione’s insistent arms, gasping, and Malfoy, stumbled backwards alone, with no one to hold him, and he looked baffled, surprised almost, and Malfoy turned his head to see.

Malfoy’s right, Ron. Harry smiled, and it must have not been a reassuring smile, because Ron looked at him with worried eyes and Hermione bit her lips and looked away, and Malfoy, he looked more lost then ever, his eyes fixated on Harry, and Harry, there he was, not once upon a time, but somewhere, on a day, living and not.

He said, Ron, I _am_ a bit fucked up in the head, I’m not the greatest housemate to be around, and Malfoy’s not so bad if you just toss him off to the library, and Ron, really, you have anger management issues too, I’d wager, we should all go to the Mind Healers together, what do you say. He smiled and met Ron’s eyes.

Silently and unspoken, he offered: Ron, it’s not Malfoy’s fault that Fred died, it never is just his fault, he didn't start the war, did he now. So you’re still grieving with your anger and I know why you joined the Aurors and I know why you don’t understand why I refused—we have different ways to bury our dead, Ron. Go on and save the world, then, and I’ll be here waiting, decomposing in my chair.

Somewhere along the lines, his face must have been too open, too unsubtle (because, it was Ron, and if he tried to be secretive about it, Ron would have never gotten the message, that git), because Hermione stared at him with a very sad face, and Malfoy, he just looked at Harry, devastated. His thin lips moved soundlessly, trying to make his mouth say something. Harry ignored him and smiled at Ron, trying to show him the love that he did not feel.

Ron rubbed his face roughly. He did not reply, but he gave a short nod, signaling that he understood, that it would take perhaps a bit longer to accept.

Alright, mate. Ron said. We’ll have that pint here then. Just not today. Another time.  

Next week? Hermione put in, eager and desperate to make amends, Next week, we’ll be here, Harry, okay?

Okay, Harry said with a small smile, and Ron came up to him to give him a small thump, and without another look at Malfoy, he left, and Hermione hugged him tightly, whispering you watch yourself Harry Potter, please take care, and she was also gone, windswept hair brushing over his cheek with her brief kiss.

Malfoy, Harry said, when Malfoy continued to look at him with his closed, tight face, you don’t need to apologize.

Malfoy opened his mouth, and Harry wanted Malfoy to say the words that would make them normal again, such as,

in what universe would I apologize to you, Potter? You and your friends deserved what they got.

But it was not a normal Malfoy, not their normal world of school rivalry and Hogwarts. Malfoy opened his mouth and let out a little choke. He too, mimicked Ron’s gestures and rubbed his face roughly, burying his face in his hands. Harry watched him, trying to _feel_ , trying to evoke pity, sympathy, perhaps even kinship; but he could not. He watched Malfoy fall apart, and he only stared and waited.

.

.

.

“Your face is too parched and white,” Madam Pomfrey says to him on the fifth night. She crosses her arms and regards him with her stern gaze, while Harry tries up for a feeble smile. “You’re not sleeping enough, Potter, and you’re a growing boy.”

Harry shakes his head, trying to protest, but she puts up one hand and makes an impatient clicking sound. “I know insomnia patients when I see them, and you’re showing all of them, full marks for that. There are only too many Sleeping Draughts that I can give you, and your Head of House—he should be aware of—”

“I, please,” Harry says, trying to sit up in the bed, his mind whirling and red; he is just so tired from it all, trying to wonder why Voldemort would show himself, why Riddle would taunt in his dreams, trying to see the hidden layers of an idiotic children’s tale. When he dreams, he is afraid to see the older Malfoy again, fearful of the grey bare room that he enters in, invisible. He does not wish to see Riddle’s eyes. His mouth croaks as he opens his mouth, and as he speaks, he knows he sounds giddy and delirious, “I’m very much fine, Madam Pomfrey. It’s, just that—feeling a little homesick, don’t mind me—”

It’s the first lie that he can think of, and even to his ears they fall flat and it’s such a joke to him, he has to reel in a laugh. He chokes instead, and Madam Pomfrey sighs her disapproval. She announces curtly, “I’m getting your Head of House. I would stuff you with more Calming Draughts and Sleeping Potions, Potter, but it’s dangerous for you to rely on them so much, and Professor Snape might have a better answer to—oh, there you are, Severus.”

Snape walks into the hospital wing, his disdain firmly plastered on his face as he looks down on Harry. Shallow and pale, Snape is as hideous at nighttime as he is during daytime. Harry tries to crush down his instinct to scowl at Snape and manages a thin smile. He doubts it is very much convincing.

“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Professor,” he says, with all the sweetness he can muster, but Snape must have seen Harry clench his teeth briefly before his pretty words came out; Snape only gives him a sneer and turns to Madam Pomfrey.

“I shall take it from here,” he says, beckoning with an impatient hand, “Up, Potter, surely you can walk, and there are other non-lethal potions waiting in my office.”

“Severus, the boy is ill,” Madam Pomfrey admonishes with a frown. Harry takes care not to stumble as he stands up from the hospital bed. Snape barely looks at him.

“I’m sure a lack of sleep has never quite managed to kill a wizard child,” Snape says curtly. “Evening, Madam Pomfrey. Potter, do try to keep up.”

Bastard, Harry thinks, hurrying his footsteps to match Snape’s wider ones.

Down in the dungeons, Harry shivers a little and hunches, ducking his head to ward off the sudden chill. Snape enters his classroom; through another door his office; yet another, a small room stocked with glass jars and a black cauldron. Snape’s inventories, what a familiar sight this is, Harry thinks, leaning against the doorway, panting a little.

“Sit, Potter,” Snape says, already bustling about. “Or are you above fainting on the floor?”

Harry lets out a hissing breath and bends down, the dampness of the dungeon floor seeping into his robes. He does not put up a Warming Charm though; he does not fancy explaining himself to Snape about his advanced magical abilities.

For a while, Snape does not acknowledge his existence, and Harry is free to observe this man whom he had once been trying to understand to the brink of obsession, had scratched and demolished every existing archive for even a scrap of information. He lists some useless facts randomly at the top of his head, if only to ward off Riddle’s words at bay. You invented many stupid spells, but others quite useful, some that I often use; your Patronus is a doe; you have the capacity to shriek like a banshee when something enrages you…

Harry rubs his forehead.

“Sir?” he says. Play nice, Harry, you are trying to get to know this man again, you are trying to earn his respect, get on his good side; that’s the only reason why you asked the hat to place you in bloody Slytherin. “Thank you for brewing the potion. The nightmares are really terrible; I do appreciate it.” Be respectful, defer to his questionable authority, be ready to act the better man, because Snape doesn’t know what is to come, not even in his wildest dreams. Pretend to be open with him; be willing, to be vulnerable, even.

He shudders. It would cost him to bare out his sorrows and fears; he had always kept them tightly sealed and shelved away, careful not to let his emotions show, until it was too late and he would burst from the sheer rage his body could not contain. But Snape would not know this, and Harry only receives a sharp hiss for his troubles.

“It is no concern of mine if you cannot sleep,” Snape snaps, not looking at him. He busily prepares the ingredients as the cauldron boils. Dreamless Potion, he thinks, the smell all too familiar to him. He tries to single out why it would be different from the one he had been drinking for the past few days, but Snape’s hands are moving too quickly for him to note any differences. “However, our dedicated school nurse seems to think otherwise, that you,” and here Snape throws a dirty look at him, and Harry manages to mask his tiredness into a smile, “deserve special treatment because you suffer from overwrought nightmares. I assure you, Potter, that your nightmares are neither extraordinary or intimidating in the least.”

“Compared to your own, sir?” he asks quietly. Snape whirls back as if he had shouted the words.

“That isn’t up for question, Potter,” he says coldly. “I shall have the brew ready in a few more minutes and you will drink every last drop down that ungrateful throat of yours, and we may all be happier for it.” He lets out an ugly sneer. “What do you dream of, Potter, aside from vanquishing Dark Lords and the like? Do you dream you’ll fall down on your broom?”

What is it about this man, Harry wonders, staring into pitiless eyes, that seems to bring out the worst in me, coaxing me to tell this man about his death, my death, the war that has happened, the war that should not happen.

He is tired. He has not been sleeping. Those are his only excuses, but they are good excuses, and Snape was not helping much with his acerbic words, not even bothering to meet him halfway. Even in his real lifetime, he is still younger than the Snape standing before him, and he has not fought the war this Snape had fought before. This Snape does not know yet that Voldemort would return, and Snape would be forced to play the spy again, courting death as he serves two masters, and he would do so for an old school love and his desperate desire for redemption.

What can go wrong, Harry thinks. So he opens his mouth and says the one thing that would truly take Snape by surprise. Perhaps, perhaps. Snape is not an easy man to shock after all; but Harry, older and wiser, knows Snape. Or at least, the Severus Snape that had bothered to pen down his life on records. The Snape who had given him those wretched memories.

He says, “I dream of my dead mum.”  
Snape jerks back. He takes a step back, away from him, and Harry stares at those back orbs, and thinks, a wave of weariness washing over him, sometimes I wish I knew how to play my cards right.

“Your mother,” Snape says flatly. His voice does not betray him, but Harry can hear the quick intake of breath from the older man, and takes his cue to nod.

“I have dreams about her, sir,” he says, “When she is about to die, she screams for mercy, and Vol— _he_ almost grants it to her. She wasn’t supposed to die, not if she gave me over to him, but she wouldn’t, and so he killed her and then turned to me…pity she did that, isn’t it.”

“And why would that be?” Snape’s voice drops into a deadly whisper.

“Why sir.” And Harry smiles, not the pleasant, bland smile he had been giving Snape for their Potions class, not the fake, pointless mask he had been wearing, but a smile that spoke volumes of a history Snape does not care to share and he does not care to divulge. “I would have thought; you would have wanted her alive even if I had to die that night.”

Snape stares.

“…Why would I care Potter,” he says, and his voice sounds dangerous, silky and soft, “If your foolish mother had died?” But Snape cannot act even with his cold voice. He cannot hide his shaking hands, his furious glare at Harry, and Harry finds he can pretend better. So he smiles, cocks his head and shrugs, airy and cruelly oblivious to such agony.

“Drink,” Snape spits, thrusting the potion vial. It is hot to the touch. He touches it, careful not to break eye contact with the older man, careful to plaster his cold smile. Look at me, he thinks, look into my eyes and read what I am thinking. You’ve done that often enough.

He touches the bottled rim with his lips, pauses. He says with a brevity he does not feel, “I don’t know, sir. You two were friends, weren’t you?”

Snape stares at him.

“Potter,” he says slowly, careful to make his voice flat, but underneath his tone, Harry finds what he is looking for: fear, anger, raw, raw hatred. “You think of the most fantastical tales. I am astonished that the Headmaster chooses to believe anything that comes out of your mouth.”

“I know,” he replies, with the same careful tone that masks his own coldness, “That you were best friends with my mum, that my dad bullied you with his friends, that you called my mum a Mudblood—”

He never finishes his sentence. The vial clatters to the floor and the stink of the potion wafts and fills the small room. He is soon pressed up against the wall, a wand at his throat, digging into his tender skin. He lets out a small gasp but the wand does not relent, forcing him to raise his chin and meet a pair of blazing eyes.

“Where did you hear this?” Snape says, and he sounds unbalanced, almost mad with fury. “There is no one here who would have told you such tales, and you—” Snape pauses, considering something for a brief moment, and snarls, “Did the Headmaster put you up for this?”

“I—what? No,” Harry manages, “No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t.”

“You are lying,” Snape hisses, and he leans over, his words almost breathing down his gaping lips. Snape’s words smell of smoke and burnt ash. His eyes grow wider. “There is no other way you could have known—both your parents are dead, and the Headmaster—”

Voices. Memories. Thoughts.

Dumbledore appears in his vision, cold and unmoving, staring at Snape with pitiless eyes, Snape, begging him to save Lily Potter after he had delivered her death sentence unknowingly just moments before…he had begged his master to save her and Voldemort had laughed at him…and so he turns, crawling back, but it was too late…

“Whose fault was that?” Harry cuts over his former professor, his voice soft, crouching in for the kill. He lets Snape see the pure, undulated hatred in his own eyes and lets his smile drop into a sneer, “Tell me, whose fault was that?”

In his defense, the hatred comes unbidden to him. He needed Snape, could not afford to destroy the Horcruxes and fend of Quirrell without Snape’s help. He had thought of a plan that revolved around not losing his temper. He would be pleasant and affable; he would be nice. But Snape, damn him. Snape alive was a man with too many variables, who had the power to dredge up unwanted grudges and unresolved matters. Harry had often passed his days in his room, clutching at loose sheets of paper that detailed the life of one Severus Snape: a private man, a foul human being, a spy. Severus Snape had been a Death Eater once, and he had tortured and killed because life was not kind to him, and Voldemort must have offered him a grand chance to do something worthwhile. To be great, to set the world on fire, Voldemort might have spoken, great, dashing promises that would have lured lesser men than Snape. And later Snape rejected those same ideals, not because he thought they were wrong but because—Lily Potter had died, and a world without his former friend must have awoken something in the broken man. He turned and paid his price, beseeched mercy at an old man who had once been his master’s enemy. It would have been foolish for Snape to leave any form of record, he knew. And yet Harry had tried to delve into the life of this contradictory man, who had sent Lily and James Potter to their deaths, who had overheard the prophecy and scurried over to his master before realizing his fatal mistake, he had not felt remorse before this, only after the deed was done, he did not renounce his ways because of a higher cause, he had…Snape had…

“You killed them,” Harry breaks out, and his voice holds years and years of frustration, of anger, of gratitude that the git surely does not deserve, because he had wanted Harry to die when he was only an infant, but had saved him only upon the memories of Lily Potter, “You killed them and you—you heard the prophecy all those years ago, you fucking, fucking bastard, you killed them and then now you’re here to save me and you hate me, Snape, don’t even try to deny it—”

Snape steps back, staggers his footing, but Harry is now upon him, his own wand out, and he knows he looks wild as he feels; magic is gathering inside of him, and his anger fuels his power as he snarls, “What did you think would’ve happened, after Voldemort heard about that little tidbit about getting me killed? Did you think he would have shown mercy, did you think he would have spared my _Mudblood_ mother, did you think that you would be his right hand man and perish out the weaklings?” He laughs, not a pleasant laugh, a high and cold shrill that echoes in the room. “Thought he would reward you beyond anything imaginable, did you? But then he went ahead and killed them both, killed them all, and then you thought you might feel sorry for your actions, so you turned around and worked as a spy and—”

Harry stops. He adjusts his wand, pointing it directly at Snape, whose eyes have been exhausted of everything except a certain hollowness that Harry is all too familiar with. It is as if Snape’s initial anger had transferred onto Harry, and his anger made Snape retreat, making the older man tread with caution. Harry bares out his teeth and unleashes his fury. This is an angry, wearied solider who has not yet come to peace with his own ghosts, Harry tries to tell himself, this is a broken man who has lost everything in the last war, who has nothing to lose any longer. This is also a man who had saved you, however unwillingly, however spitefully. This is a man who had helped you win your own damn war and died for it. This is a man who had died under the whims of a madman, asking for a redemption that I could not grant him.

Snape holds his wand loosely between his fingers, but he does not try to counteract Harry’s wand with his own. He is watching Harry with a certain emptiness, a detached curiosity.

“Well, well, Mr. Potter,” he says, when it is clear that Harry would not say anything more, “I see why the hat had placed you in Slytherin. You certainly have the taciturn your father had not.” Snape pauses and speaks with a duller tone. “And you take after your mother’s temper. Pity that.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my mum!” he snaps, his wand jabbing at Snape’s jaw. “Don’t you—dare—”

“Shall I ask where you have gotten your stories from?”

He sucks in a breath and grits his teeth. He glares at Snape.

“No,” he snarls, trying to keep down his temper, and Riddle’s voice, it coos at him, _kill him, Harry, kill the enemy, take the blood of thy enemy…_ “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I see,” Snape says, and he stares at the tip of Harry’s wand but does not do anything to defend himself. He flickers his eyes from the wandpoint to Harry’s eyes.

“If you are going to kill me, Potter,” Snape says neutrally, “I suggest you have it done with.”

And Snape tilts his head back, closes his eyes. He is docile, quiet.

Deranged. This is madness. Harry, drop your wand, say you’re sorry, you are, aren't you? You need him, Snape needs you—

And Harry screams. He screams at the voices to shut up, but mostly, he screams at the man before him, all too willing to die without a fight, too tranquil and meek. Snape’s surrender does not abate the roaring rush of his blood.

His wand is forgotten; a primitive outrage wells up inside his body. He needs to grasp something—and his wand is thrust away, and he drags down Snape’s black robes, those hideous, bat-like robes, and he pushes Snape down against the floor. It should be a comical sight; he had always been small for his age, and he was only eleven, and Snape would usually tower over him, but now, Snape allows himself to be forcefully manhandled down to the floor, and Harry screams at him.

He does not know what he screams of. He surely must have screamed every foul word, every deprecatory name and every thought that he had bottled up for the past ten years. He shakes this man, this traitor, this savior, who had belittled him and saved him, damned him and guided him, and yells, you bastard, you coward, you maddening, fucking vile git, you murderer, what do you think of when you look at me, do you see my dead father, do you see my mother with my stupid green eyes, did you wish you were dead, Snape, you should have died that night, next to the corpse of my mum, but then you went ahead and saved me while despising me throughout it all, _why did you save me_ , why did you—and then he breaks down, still clutching the front of Snape’s robes. He howls.

Snape does not do anything throughout this maddening tirade. He does not push him away, does not scoff at his sudden outburst, does not carry him off to the hospital wing and declares him mad. No, Snape, he lies still, observing him with his black, bottomless eyes, and he gives nothing away. His face is devoid of everything. He does not offer, he does not ask, not for a long time. He only waits for the storm to calm.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The night deepens, falters. It is nearly dawn when he finally stops.

First he heaves great gulps of breath after his outburst had left him, tries to open his mouth—bad call, I’ve never really managed to vent out my emotions like that, it’s just seeing your face, Snape, brings back all those traumatic memories, never mind me—but cannot manage to speak. He falls unconscious and does not dream of anything; when he wakes up, he is slouched against the wall, and Snape is busy with his cauldron once more. Snape does not look at him as he says mildly, “Ah. Our young celebrity awakes.”

Harry shifts. He frowns and wets his lips, wonders what to say.

“You’ve broken the last batch of potions with your little rant, Potter,” Snape speaks, his eyes still fixed on the simmering potion. “You’ll have to wait a bit longer, most unfortunately.”

“Sir,” he tries to say; his words come out in a small rasp, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Save it, Potter.” Snape turns around, and Harry can see the cold fire brimming in Snape’s eyes. Snape’s tone does not betray his irk. It sounds tired but otherwise betrays nothing. “You meant what you’ve said and you’re not very sorry about it. Spare me the bumbling apologies.”

Harry nods weakly. He leans back and watches Snape put in the last of the ingredients. Snape is efficient and ruthless in his dicing and chopping, grinding and mixing. His art is done effortlessly; Harry wonders how Snape would do well in a battle. How ruthless he may be towards his enemies.

(He remembers: FIGHT BACK, YOU COWARD, a sixteen-year-old Harry Potter screaming, and Snape snarling into his face, his face cold with murdering rage, and Harry had thought wildly, he will kill me now, so be it, but Snape had stared into his eyes, had stepped back. Fled the scene after his deed was done. Such a long time ago it was, when Harry had doubted intents of wearied men, thinking that the world was a clear line between black and white.)

“…Sir,” he says, “Why would your Dreamless be different from the one Madam Pomfrey had been giving me?”

“Mine does not keep your dreams off at bay, for one.” Snape raises a hand when he opens his mouth to protest. “And dream repression is a severe side-effect of fatigue, Potter. The dreams do not go away; they flounder about, and they would turn vicious. It would only serve to harm you in the long run.”

“I could fend them off,” Harry says, ever the stubborn mind, and Snape sneers.

“Yes, and how has that been working out for you? Tell me, Mr. Potter, do you often throw yourself upon professors and roar hotheaded idiocy at them?”

“It wasn’t idiotic,” Harry says hotly, before he can help himself, “It was—”

“Bellowing out the truth does not excuse your idiocy, Potter, no matter how well-deserved it may feel. As for your actions…” Snape pauses. He swishes his wand and the fire goes out; the room is dimmer and colder. Harry scowls to mask his unease. “I have still not heard where you have gotten your wild tales.”

“And you won’t be hearing it from me.”

“Is that so.” Snape tilts his head and stares at Harry. It is a new, peculiar look; Snape in his lifetime had only looked at him with disdain and scorn, and Harry had glared back just as defiantly. But now Snape was looking towards him with wariness, and a tinge of curiosity. He has never been the greatest expert on Snape, of all people, but he is older now; he is able to catch the way Snape’s eyes flicker to his wand and his scar. He can almost hear Snape’s thoughts: did Potter truly have power that the Dark Lord does not, a power that Dumbledore has missed all those years ago? Would the prophecy turn out to be true; the prophecy half-completed at best and a farce at worst? But Snape does not voice out his questions. He scoops a ladle of the foul smelling potion and empties it into a vial, thrusting it towards him.

“Mind you don’t drop this one,” he says.

Harry drinks. The potion is always unpleasant to drink, and the effect would take a few hours to set in. He scrunches up his nose as the potion makes its way down his throat and burns his stomach. Snape watches him silently.

“I dream about Voldemort,” he says, after he finishes the vial, “That part you said, sir—that part was true.”

“Do not say his name, Potter,” Snape starts, but he cuts through his professor, tired of going over familiar script lines, old grudges. He does not have to play friends with the git, and probably never can. Years cannot seem to bury the past into a box of grievances; it merely allows his anger to be cruel and sharp, aimed to lash out. Snape has never been a good person, he knows, not even a good teacher, for that matter—but he had been a good strategist, a good solider. He will give credit where it’s due and keep his own emotions at bay. It is all he can hope for.

“He will return soon, you see. He’s a madman, but he hasn’t died, not completely.” Not in this timeline, at least, and on my watch I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen ever. He raises furious eyes to Snape, only to have the man stare down at him, unimpressed.

“Funny you should say such things,” Snape says, “The Headmaster has been up and about, warning me of…some events he finds to be suspicious.”

“Quirrell’s been keeping him,” Harry says, and at this, Snape’s eyebrows rise, “Vol—he’s inside Quirrell, they met in Albania, and now he wants the Stone that’s in the third corridor—and—”

Harry stops. He sounds unhinged, with his quick, frantic words and gasps, but he needs Snape to see, he needs the man to understand the situation.

“And why should you be telling me this?” Snape appraises him coolly, but he does not shout that Harry is a crazed little boy out for glory and fame. He supposes that would be a good sign. “If you harbor any suspicions about your professors, I would have expected you to rush off to the Headmaster at a moment’s notice.”  
Harry hesitates.

“Well,” he says slowly, “You are the Head of my House, sir.”

“But that hasn’t stopped you from bodily throwing yourself onto me,” Snape points out calmly.

Harry throws a dirty look at Snape, which Snape returns with a nasty smirk. “No, Potter, unlike the rest of my colleagues, I have not quite accepted your prodigal skills or your beatific manners,” Snape drawls, “You rot of mature magic, for one. No first year should be able to wield a wand as you do, especially one that has been brought up in the house of Petunia Evans.”

“Maybe my aunt’s grown up a bit about her stance in magic,” Harry mutters before he can help himself, “People can change, you know.”

“I daresay they can,” Snape says dryly. “As such, I have grieved and moved on to pay my penance by teaching the half-wits of this new generation. Grow up, Potter. The war has been done with; surely you wouldn’t expect me to believe that the Dark Lord has arisen again without any physical evidence of this?”

“You can look through my mind,” he says. “You’re a skilled Legilimens—”

“And the minds of people are often muddled with their own beliefs, not the objectivity that may allow me to gather the information I require,” Snape sneers, although he looks taken aback as to how Harry would have known this. He folds his arms. “As to how you've received your knowledge about me—”

“Oh, I’ve read you up sir,” Harry says snidely, “Plenty about you out there, you see. You were rightly famous with the press, seeing how you lacked court trial records even though you were a Death Eater, and people are _very_ curious about your sudden conversion to our side. Real hero, you are.”

Snape does not fail to disappoint. In a flash, Snape’s face contorts to pale anger and he has his wand brandished out again, pointing it directly between Harry’s eyes. “Insolence, Potter, is not overlooked twice,” Snape whispers.

But this time, he is ready. He has drunk the Dreamless, he has vented out his dues, and so his mind is a flat, barren landscape where no rage or spite can touch him. He smiles at his Potions professor grimly. “I haven’t told you all this just to lord it over you, sir. Not even to jest with you. This is me telling you, there are things I know about you and things I’ve made my peace with. There is a war coming, and he’ll be back. Better to be ready than not.”

Especially now, since I don't seem to know any of his plans, he thinks.

Snape stares at him for a long time, dislike evident on his pallid face. He gives a little jerk of his head and gestures vaguely with one hand.

“We will talk, Potter, when you recover from your Dreamless,” Snape says, his quiet voice filled with distaste from thinking of the very prospect. “Make no mistake, if I believe this to be a ruse…”

Harry shrugs. “You can disembowel me, sir, but not before then.” He peels himself off the wall and stands, wincing at how weak and malleable his body feels. His body is screaming for bed and rest. As he turns away to exit the small room, however, Snape stops him.

“Potter, as unpleasant as it is for me to remind us all of your little breakdown, I should ask you this.”

He turns.

Snape looks at him with piercing eyes, giving the air of a man who is struggling to find the missing pieces of a riddle he did not quite care to reveal yet. He looks at Harry seemingly triumphant in his conclusion but aghast at the prospect, as if he is almost wishing his conjecture to be proven false. And Harry knows the question before it escapes Snape’s lips, knows that there can be only one answer for it, and he feels a strange relief washing over him, understanding that it would not be long before Snape would fit everything together and Harry could talk to him freely about the Hallows and the third corridor. He may not like the man, but at least he could depend on what Snape would be capable of.  

“I do not remember saving your life, in my recent memory, let alone many times. Certainly, I may have damned you to your fate, left your mother and father to die, although that can be debated…but you have been most apt in keeping yourself scarce in my presence every since you have come to this castle.” Snape twists his lips, for he does not want to ask. Harry can see it all; but Snape must, because it is the final clue to whom Harry might be, and Harry will only be too glad to give it up to him, “Either my memory is dwindling (and here Snape sneers, as if that would ever be a possibility) or you’re talking of nonsense, and not to be believed, neither you nor your inflated head.”

So, not a complete question then. But he had not expected otherwise, and so he allows a final, insincere smile to be directed at Snape’s way, and from the way Snape stiffens, Snape also knows how his next words would go.

“Why, sir,” Harry says, “Just minutes before you told me that no first year would have the magical powers that I showed to you. There must have been a time when I was truly a bumbling first year, and you were there to clean up after my sorry messes. Although, at that time, I thought you were out to kill me. Wouldn’t be the first.”

And with that, Harry goes, leaving Snape to sort out through the conundrums and eventually reach the apt course to take.

He’ll have his answer by the next nightfall. If nothing, he may depend of Snape’s punctuality.

.

.

.

The night sky, the woods, the empty space. A ghastly man sits atop a boulder, moonlight shining upon his pale face.

Enters one Harry Potter.

Why this forest? he asks, the moment he steps into the clearing.

Voldemort is waiting for him, not in a hurry to greet him or kill him on sight. His head bowed, Voldemort plays with a small trinket between his fingers—a ring, Harry soon sees. Gaunt’s ring.

Foolish of you to drop this Stone in the forest where anyone could make use of it, Voldemort says, his voice merciless and mocking, but then of course, you were always a foolish boy.

You’re not answering the question, Harry says again. This is his dream, his lucid, fluid dream, and he will damn Snape for ever convincing him that dreams were more helpful than not, for taking his wretched potion in the first place.

Why, Potter, do you wish to flaunt your ignorance so blatantly now? Voldemort sneers, taking his eyes off the ring and staring at him with his red orbs, this was where you died. I thought it was a nice touch. Your dreams, Potter, it leads you into places you do not wish it to be, does it not?

Yes, but that’s not why I’m asking, Harry says slowly, this is my resting area, where _I_ died, but we’ve yet to see yours. Afraid of reliving your death, are you, Riddle?

Voldemort’s eyes glow and his lips curl; in a moment the forest fades into nothingness, and the grounds below him turn into a gleaming marbled floor, the trees twist into stone walls, the night sky above him shine brightly of candlelight. The castle is in ruins, as it had been amidst the battle, and yet, everything is still. The silence is eerie, with no one to stand by and look upon them.

But Harry smirks, basks in the absolute stillness. Better.

Would you like an audience as well, Potter? Voldemort sneers, already pacing about; Harry follows suit in the opposite direction. Soon they are circling one another, their footsteps ringing in the empty hall. Reviving your past glory, allowing the fools to see how you have seemingly vanquished me?

I have, though, Harry says. I killed you and you fell, rebounded by your own Killing Curse. I’ve seen you die—really, Riddle, are we going over this again?  

I see that time travelling has inflated your head of false heroism and security.

I’m only back in time to prevent what has already happened. Harry whirls around, wand at the ready, to find that Voldemort has yet to take out his wand. He frowns. I could stop you now, faster and easier. I have everything I need at my disposal.

Can you, Voldemort seems disinterested. And do you know many wizards who travel in time—what may happen to them?

Harry frowns. This isn’t your ordinary time traveling. Death—

Yes, Death offered you a chance, you, Master of Death, the Possessor of the Three Hallows, Voldemort cuts in, and his voice is sharp with impatience. And Albus Dumbledore is a fool, he bestowed you upon that title which you have let rot away for ten years for naught, and you stand after everything, still blissfully an innocent…

Voldemort hisses out his words like an insult. His wand hand twitches, and Harry sees how Voldemort is holding himself back. _He is waiting for something._ Harry hesitates. _But what?_

Tell me, Harry Potter, has my younger self talked to you as of late? Voldemort paces forth, his steps faster, and Harry instinctively hurries his pace in the opposite direction, his eyes trained on Voldemort. He has visited you in your dreams, I can see it in your eyes, and yet you dawdle…he is growing impatient. As am I.

He talked to me of the Hallows, Harry ventures out, and what he had once possessed. Making a lot of things quite obvious and not. You had the Stone with you after you killed your uncle. You had it for years and never used it. The Stone can resurrect the dead, but you have no one whom you would have wished to bring back alive. You care for no soul but your own—but then, of course, you created six of them. And so? Did you resurrect one of your own Horcruxes? 

Ah. So the boy _can_ think.

But then again, I’ve thought about it, and you didn't—Dumbledore claimed the ring and destroyed it, and you wouldn’t have known he was hunting for your Horcruxes before that, so you’ve lost your chance to resurrect anything. Dumbledore destroyed the Stone first—you wouldn’t have known that your diary was gone. (You were too busy getting used to that skeletal body of yours in that first year, maybe licking your wounds after that fiasco in the Ministry in the second, Harry suggests with his eyes and Voldemort catches onto his unspoken remark and hisses.) You were too sure that Dumbledore wouldn’t have guessed—

Understand, Potter, Voldemort says softly. You are working under false assumptions created by Dumbledore. I created six, but I knew I had made you my seventh.

Harry stops pacing. He stares.

Do you remember my father’s graveyard, Potter, when you offered your blood to resurrect your foe? Voldemort tilts his head and slows his walk as well. He mockingly gestures to himself and gives an unpleasant smile. _Prior Incantato_. Our wands met in a most unfortunate fashion; I was unable to kill you. The voices of the dead spoke out, and of course, you had your touching reunion with your parents…

He grips his wand tighter but Voldemort merely sneers at his gesture.

Our wand cores had come from the same source, and I had just been created out of your blood—

And that was your downfall, Harry says rashly, you thought it protected you but it only made it impossible for you to kill me.

I have had ten years to contemplate my mistakes, Potter. Voldemort snarls, and Harry’s eyes grow wider as Voldemort comes upon him suddenly from behind, and his arm is grabbed by thin, gaunt fingers. Did you ever consider to think, Voldemort continues on in a low voice, and his fingers dig into Harry’s skin hard enough to break blood; he presses his lips, refuses to scream, as Voldemort continues, that perhaps I had intended to use your blood and I would have dealt with the consequences later? That your blood may offer me protection, and I, in turn, would have protected my soul that was ensnared inside your pitiful body with the very blood that had bound me?

The castle walls shift and ground; the stone arches up higher into the night sky; the ruins crumble and shake violently. The hall echoes with the ruinations of the castle. It is crumbling and wasting, Harry thinks, his eyes frantic, not quite able to take his eyes off Voldemort’s gaze. Voldemort tugs him closer and he stumbles the last few steps, but the firm grip on his arm does not allow him to break free. Voldemort looks intently into his eyes, searching, wanting something—Harry puts up his shield instinctively, but his defenses come in too late—

You were always terrible at Occlumency, Potter, Voldemort says softly. Did you think—surely you did not think…but you did. Voldemort laughs, and his laughter is thin and terrible to hear.

You truly thought that I would not recognize my own soul. No, Potter, I knew the moment I touched you all those years ago…and I knew then what I had to do…

Voldemort stops. He smiles and loosens his grip; Harry lurches back, his eyes trained onto Voldemort’s, his wand ready to attack. But Voldemort still does not take out his wand. He stares at Harry, not seemingly understanding his aggravation, his terse posture.

Perhaps it is time, Voldemort says softly, for you to find out what one of the Hallows truly mean. The Hallows Dumbledore had so coveted in his youth but had never quite bothered to understand. Perhaps it would do you good to see their true powers and intent.

Before Harry can ask, or even scream, the castle slinks into the shadows. Everything blurs into a grey, misty fog.

.

.

.

Hello, Harry.

 

In place of Voldemort, Riddle stands in the middle of the small space that is not completely devoured by the fog. Harry deems it safe to raise up his wand.

Riddle, he says flatly.

Riddle laughs. None of that now, he says amicably, we’re not in our usual room, I admit, and that Malfoy heir is gone…but surely you can retain your manners for a few more minutes?

Harry narrows his eyes. Where are we, then. Maybe we can start with that.

I’m glad you asked. Riddle’s smile grows wider. It’s good to know you do hold some common sense in that stubborn mind of yours. Quite endearing.

Riddle walks forth before Harry can think up a suitable answer or a hex to throw towards the other boy. This way, Harry. Mind the fog; Death is a whimsical fellow indeed. He didn’t want you to see the memories in the first place, but I insisted.

What memories? Harry quickens his steps and tries to see anything beyond the fog. The greyness is a thick smoke that wraps around him. He falters his steps but Riddle is next to him, whispering, just a little longer now. Your answers will be answered in due time. His voice is a soft croon next to his ear. Harry tries his best not to shiver.

The fog does clear; but it is a slow process. The greyness shifts and thins out, and soon they come across a meadow that is overgrown with weeds, a terrible sight to behold. The ground is dry and flat, and Harry squints his eyes at the surroundings. It is a familiar place, but the memory fails him, until he lifts up his head and sees the towering manor perched upon the hill.

The Riddle Manor, he blurts out, horror taking over him before anything else. Riddle laughs unpleasantly next to him.

Brings back fond memories, I’m sure, Riddle says, and Harry turns to glare at him, only to find that Riddle’s own face is marred with disgust. He is glaring not at the Riddle Manor and where the graveyard might be, but a place that is much nearer to them.

Harry looks around, and frowns. They are standing a few feet away from a hut that has seen better days; it is a rotting shack, close to toppling down. Half of the roof had already collapsed against its own weight. The steps to the house are cracked and the doorframe is crooked and worn. The small porch is infested with weeds and a malevolent buzzing can be heard somewhere from the walls. A thump is heard from the inside.

We should go in, Riddle says, still wearing a disgusted face as his eyes flicker from the Manor to the crumbling house. There is something we must see inside the house.

Harry stares at the House of Gaunt. He feels it first before he names it; a strong magical barrier is surrounding the house, a sinister magic Harry has often felt in his youth, and after, in his dreams. The magical force that has often beckoned him and mocked him; he would be a fool not to have recognized it.

Without looking at Riddle, Harry says, So. Is your Horcrux already in there?

Riddle’s laugh is more cordial than the last. I should have known, he says, his tone warm and affectionate. Harry scowls at the falsity of this. You’re familiar to my magic. Yes, Harry, what a smart boy you are.

Don’t patronize me, Harry snaps, and he would have turned his wand at Riddle at that moment, had it not been for the voice inside the hut.

 

Ariana. Oh, Ariana…

Harry stops. He listens to the voice, dread creeping inside him as he stands close to the door. The voice is so familiar that Harry does not even need a second to gather about his thoughts, and yet never had he heard that voice so laden with grave sorrow.

I haven’t told you yet, Riddle says, walking the last few steps to the door and gesturing with his hand as an invitation, but most unfortunately, it is not my memories that I wish to show you at this time. Riddle’s smile is piercing as he looks at Harry. Death has been so kind to allow us to visit Dumbledore’s first.

Without waiting for a reply, Riddle creaks open the door of his ancestral house and walks in. Harry follows numbly, his hands shaking.

 

Inside the hut, the room they step into is bare, save for a rotting, dusty armchair. It is frayed and destroyed at the fringes. The wooden floor is scorched, and his old headmaster stands in the middle of the room. He does not hear them come in, his eyes fixated on the object in his hands.

Dumbledore holds the ring, his fingers carefully tracing the engravings marked upon the object. His movements are reverent, his face open and holding such childlike joy that it pains Harry to watch him. He averts his eyes, but Riddle grips his chin. Riddle’s eyes brim with something Harry cannot name, and Riddle looks at him intently, a slow smile coming up his youthful face. Riddle is excited but there is too much emotion contained in those eyes to merely call it that; Harry can read it clearly in his blazing eyes. It is the eyes of a hungry predator, waiting his bleeding prey to die out, to offer itself freely for death. Riddle forces his chin to turn towards Dumbledore, he leans over to whisper, no, you will watch this, watch, Harry, watch that old fool Dumbledore…

 

Dumbledore turns the ring, slowly, once, twice, thrice. He looks around, looking expectant. His eyes gleam as the room mists over, and the armchair disappears with the haze.

Ariana, he cries, his voice hoarse, Ariana!

He slips on the ring.

And then—Harry feels a familiar cold feeling wash over him, as a white fog gathers, a thick mist surrounding them; Dumbledore falls down on his knees, his eyes wide, a hand reaching out towards a hooded figure.

Albus Dumbledore, Death says. Master of the Elder Wand, once the Possessor of the Cloak. We meet again.

Dumbledore does not seem to be startled at Death’s appearance. He seems to have expected the presence of Death, as he calmly stares at the otherworldly figure in front of him. Harry gapes at Death, and without tearing his eyes off a kneeling Dumbledore he whispers, but how can he see Death?

One lesson you should learn from this, Riddle speaks, and his own voice is hushed, almost as if he too, did not wish to disrupt the exchange before them, is that an individual possessor of the Hallow is able to approach Death. If only the holder shows the right intention of the possessed Hallow and musters the determination to carry it through. And Dumbledore, he must have a dearly loved one, whom he wished to see once more at all costs…

Riddle chuckles, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine.

Ariana, Dumbledore whispers, I wish to see my sister once more.

Death chuckles. That is a wily request framed wisely, and you know better than to fool me. You wish to see the deceased return to the land of living. Tut, tut. If that is your wish, then so be it.

At once, Death conjures up a figure from the thickened mist; a girl, plain and tall, who swirls and unfolds herself from Death’s spidery fingers. She tilts her body and sways several times before straightening herself, her gaze unfocused and empty. Dumbledore does not make a sound, but his eyes grow heavy as he stares hard at the willowy figure that now stands between him and Death.

Yes, that is my sister, Dumbledore whispers. His hand twitches, but he does not try to reach out and grasp her. Just as she had been before her death.

Death smiles and flexes his hand; at once, the girl with her bottomless eyes twirls in a circle. She flops back like a doll, boneless, and Dumbledore flinches at the sight.

I wish—Dumbledore begins, but Death cuts him off with a croak. Ah, ah. Harry strains his ears to hear his next words.

Death whispers,

I need your soul, Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore does not look surprised at this request, but he meets Death’s gaze that hidden under his hood. Dumbledore’s eyes hold much weariness, as he clutches the ring to his palm. He does not come back with a reply instantly; instead, Harry notes with surprise, he is brooding. Contemplating. Harry waits a minute, an infinity; he has lost the ability to breathe.

Dumbledore opens his mouth to ask,

How much of my soul?

Dumbledore beseeches those words, almost a plea, and Harry nearly takes a step back in shock, but Riddle is there to steady him. He does not need to glance in Riddle’s direction to see the older boy grinning fiercely at the scene unfolding before him, those hungry, angry eyes narrowing with delight.

How the mighty has fallen, Riddle whispers, almost to himself. Or how he had almost. Oh, old man, and you dared once preached to _me_ about the perils of magic, what a hoot you’re turning out to be.

Why, Death answers, withdrawn and amused as Death was prone to be, only a piece of it, but you will be mangled with the magic, for you know the old tale, you and Gellert Grindelwald both…you have searched for the Hallows in your youth long enough to have gathered your sources and weighed your choices…

I have guessed, but never truly understood, Dumbledore speaks. His voice retains his composure, but Harry sees how his hand is clenched around the ring and the Stone, like how a child would show is greed, and the gesture is all too blatant and telling; Harry thinks, Death will know, Death will notice.

Perhaps, Death muses, you need a reminder of what you had once been. Before your quest for the better good, you once pursued quite a different path…perhaps, Albus Dumbledore, this will allow you to see, and finally understand…

And Death folds and unfolds his fingers again; Ariana is gone, and the fog dissipates as quickly as it came. They are in the hut no longer; they are out in the open, clear air. The grounds are afresh and the soil wet. The sun is shining upon the blossoming trees. The air is warm and the breeze balmy. Harry looks around, and sees a younger Dumbledore, resting against a tree. His face is buried in a book. Dumbledore sees the version of his younger self and starts, and Death chuckles at his surprise.

Remember your own greatness and recklessness that have ruined you. Perhaps you may be able to be persuaded…but then again, perhaps not.

And Death turns, and he sees Harry and Riddle at the niche of Dumbledore’s memories. Never does Death show his face, but Harry can feel Death smiling as he directs his words to Harry,

And perhaps, you, Master of Death, shall understand the folly that is to come. 

Death salutes his title mockingly, and he is no more. There is only the three of them awaiting, watching Dumbledore’s younger years fold out before them.

 

Harry observes. He is rattled by what he sees, his glances riveting back from the prodigy that had once been Dumbledore, and back to the grave, aging face of the Dumbledore he had once known dearly. Harry sees, and absorbs the memories shown to him, and does not quite know what to think.

Dumbledore in his youth blazed with brilliance; Harry stares at this very young Dumbledore at the brink of adulthood and truly sees a prodigy, a dancer who may whip up the greatest magic with the finest delicacy. The younger Dumbledore flickers his wand and the air around him vibrates, and the wind is swept along from the residues of the spells that Dumbledore recites. In his boredom, in those long summer days, Dumbledore swishes and waves, his wand making the nature around him flutter and swirl to his tunes. An aura enwraps him. In the memories, Dumbledore laughs amidst his creations, carefree and careless, his eyes very blue as they twinkle and—

Those are Tom Riddle’s eyes, Harry thinks with a shiver. They are hard and brilliant, cold and mesmerizing. They hold greed, they seek greatness. They crave recognition, aim tot have people kneeling at his feet as he towers above them. And at the backdrop, there he is, the young Grindelwald. A handsome face with an eager look about him, drinking in the magic that is unfolding before him. He is reclining on the grass, his eyes amused and alit, watching Dumbledore perform his magic with fondness and avarice. His face is openly ravenous, conjuring up the many possibilities that they may accomplish. Dumbledore meets that gaze with the same eager tune; Dumbledore, too, is imagining the foreseeable future that is paved for them. Dumbledore swishes his wand and sets the backyard tree on fire on a random note; Grindelwald puts it out in an instant with a whirlpool of water. Spells fly and the air crackles with their magic. They eventually stand in the barren grounds, facing one another, grinning fiercely at the ruins lain before them. They relish the destruction that they have created.

_I resented it, Harry…I was gifted, I was brilliant. I wanted to escape. I wanted to shine. I wanted glory…_

Years ago, in a spotless pristine King’s Cross, he walked with Dumbledore and asked him many questions and granted atonement to an old man who had once been his kind and loving mentor. He had known Dumbledore as a merciful man, a great man, who had fought Voldemort ceaselessly and had chosen to die in his own terms. The Albus Dumbledore Harry had always known and revered deep inside his mind was the man who had cared for the downtrodden, for the greater good, who had made fatal mistakes in his life but was humble enough to ask forgiveness to a boy decades younger than he. In his last moments, Harry had assured and consoled him like a child, and Dumbledore told him that Harry had always been the better man. Something warm had filled his heart at that remark. It had allowed him to make peace with Dumbledore, and thus allowed him to return back to the land of the living. Because his headmaster saw it fit to do so. Because he entrusted Harry to do what was right.

The young Dumbledore held none of that compassion and sympathy. He was pure power, complete with his grandeur, and he was just a careless youth, looking as if he would display his power and wield it without a care.

And then, Ariana comes out into the ground.

Beside Harry, the old Dumbledore gasps. Harry quickly looks at the Dumbledore standing next to him; the old and weary Dumbledore, kind and merciful, whose magic is contained and safely tucked away…and Dumbledore stares at his younger self, his face pale, eyes aghast and horrified. He is steeling himself for what is to come.

Harry looks back at the scene.

The young Dumbledore watches Ariana walk past. His eyes are dispassionate and calculating. Ariana is fair but not beautiful, even in Dumbledore’s fond memories. She does not meet her older brother’s stare as she meanders across the courtyard. She is a quiet child, walking while seemingly meditating her deepest thoughts, but there is a stiffness about her. She is constantly on her guard, always ready for an attack.

Ariana, Dumbledore speaks. It is tinged with impatience and rebuke. Step aside, you’ll get hurt.

Brother, she replies, and her voice is very sweet to hear as her face was not, you shouldn’t have burned down that tree. It was my sitting spot.

She speaks with a quiet, solemn tone, quite unusual for a girl her age, and yet her hand twitches as she speaks, grappling the thin air for a stick. A wand. Her fingers close around an emptiness, searching. She pauses and speaks sadly. I have no place to read now.

Dumbledore stares at her sister, looking exasperated. Oh, Ariana, he says, but there is no warmth to his tone. It’s not gone forever. Here, why don’t I—

Let me, Albus, Grindelwald interrupts, and with a flourish of his own wand, the decimated tree is replaced with a new bud, and the small plant soon branches out and sprouts its leaves in full bloom. In a matter of seconds, the tree is replaced, as if there has not been a flash of fire and a flood of water just moments before. Dumbledore looks at his friend fondly, but Ariana protests.

It’s not the same. You destroyed it already.

Ariana, let it go. It was harmless. Now Dumbledore’s voice is sharp with rebuke, tinged with impatience. His eyes dismiss Ariana’s hunched form and strolls over to the newly formed tree, touching the rough bark of the trunk.

Quite a creation, he murmurs, and Grindelwald grins. He is a rakish looking boy, his movements casual and free, and in the summer’s day he is magnificent with his tousled perfect looks, his blond hair sparkling in the sunlight.

The things we can do with magic are numerous, Grindelwald says, and while his tone is filled with affection for his friend, his eyes are frosty when they meet Ariana’s face. Magic is everything, after all. It is a pity that some cannot use it to their means.

Ariana’s face pales. Dumbledore does not notice. But the old Dumbledore—wiser, kinder, and yes, a better man than what he had once been—lets out a guttural sound.

Sweet and meek, your sister had been in her life, Death says, and the scene dissolves; they are once again in Gaunt’s hut, and Dumbledore clutches his hand to his heart. For awhile they are surrounded by stillness and a deadened silence. 

I would have thought, Dumbledore finally says, that you would have shown me the duel. When Ariana had died.

There would have been no point, Death replies, benignly, almost pityingly, you have relived those memories for years; you have made your peace with it. You have kept your sister everlasting and alive in those final moments of her life…no, it would have been too obvious. The dead do not work on such terms.

I loved her, Dumbledore whispers. His voice cracks. I may not have understood her, nor looked after her needs as much as I should have, but Merlin save me. I loved her.

And so you did. And so you have. Death’s voice is unflinching as he unfolds his hands and turns up his palms in a consoling manner. But I have shown you moments when you have faltered in your affections, and when you have chosen to overlook the deeds of your good friend….and so, tell me, Master of the Elder Wand. Do you truly wish to use the Stone to see your sister once more? Death’s voice drops into a soft hiss. It is the price of your soul.

Dumbledore stares into Death, but does not quite seem to see, what exactly he is looking for. There is another everlasting pause, one that stretches out longer than the first silence. Dumbledore moves his lips silently; and although he knows what is to happen, Harry cannot help but stare hard at the old man with his heart clawing at his throat.

(In his memories, Dumbledore speaks to him: _Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living._ Those old words come back to him, and they resonate inside his head, and Harry finally thinks he understands, at what cost Dumbledore had paid to say those words. Those words were meant for Dumbledore himself when he had been alive, just as it had been meant for the final soul of Tom Riddle. How long, Harry wonders, had Dumbledore been haunted by the images of his dead sister? And yet. He did not succumb to that desire. He feels an unjustified pride towards Dumbledore, a wave of comfort. At least in this, Dumbledore had been the better man, had made the more noble decision. At least.)

No, Dumbledore finally says. His voice is defeated. That is not my desire. She has been dead for this long; perhaps it is time for me to bury the dead as they see fit.

Death shrugs. His cloak billows around him and he begins to fade. As you see fit, Albus Dumbledore…if that is how you wish to use the Resurrecting Hallow. If you do not wish to summon the dead, then I have no choice but to return it back to its truthful state. Return to your quest, find the split souls of Tom Riddle…Death laughs. I have had the chance to meet that boy once, not long ago. He has already asked for what you refused.

Dumbledore’s eyes grow wide. I—no, he says, distressed, no, that is not—

Possible? But he has, and he did, and I granted. But that is not my tale to tell. You hold in your hands now, not a Hallow, but a fragment of Tom Riddle’s soul. It is what you have sought, is it not? Against your own peril you called me; upon your death shall you pay the price.

With those last words, Death disappears; the air changes, and a low shrill fills the air. It is the sound of laughter, a familiar, crazed shriek. The hut swirls with the voice of a young Tom Riddle. Dumbledore drops the ring and it rolls across the floor, and a shadow of a young boy emerges against the ring’s growing shadow. Dumbledore stares at the ring, his stunned expression replaced with grave resolution.

Perhaps, dream-Riddle speaks from behind him, and Harry jerks in surprise, it is time for us to leave. His arm is grabbed once more, and they escape the scene as Dumbledore collapses onto the floor, his shaking wand pointing at the Riddle who rises out from the ring. The laughter of the Horcrux howls in their wake.

.

.

.

They are back. To the grey room they arrive, inside those bare walls they stand. Harry frees himself the moment they enter, his steps uneven, as he tries to regain his footing. He finds it impossible to breathe. Riddle hovers around him, waiting for him to speak first.

I thought, Harry finally says, his voice hoarse, that it was your curse that had killed Dumbledore. When—when he was looking for your Horcruxes.

Oh, no. Riddle says calmly. Well. Perhaps. A little. I had guarded the ring with the utmost care, after all. But Dumbledore had dismantled all my shields. He held the ring, did he not? It was Death that took him. You do not encounter Death and live to tell the tale whole and intact.

Harry swallows. He gathers up his reserve, rubs his eyes with trembling fingers. This is very tiring, he says. I should have had a proper Dreamless Potion. Fuck Snape for this.

You had to know sooner or later, Riddle hums. He does not seem bothered by the distress; he seems to revel in it. You are brash with your wand, unhesitant in your resolve…but studious and meticulous you are not and have never been.

Harry snorts. No, he agrees, still massaging his temples wearily, I leave that to my other friends.

Yes, your Mud— _Muggleborn_ friend. Riddle holds up his hands in mock surrender when Harry snaps his head up and glares. I did not say the word, Harry. I thought it wise not to anger you further with pointless insults.

How kind of you, he growls.

Riddle smiles, his hands outstretched. Come now, Harry. Riddle’s eyes glint. I have only shown you Dumbledore’s choice in the matter. Or have you forgotten Death’s words?

Harry scowls. You’ve resurrected your own Horcrux, he replies tersely. He begins walking in a circle; Riddle falls silent, his smile indulgent. You wouldn’t have done that when the ring was made; that was only your second Horcrux, and you can’t resurrect a diary. You can only summon a one that had died and fell into Death’s hold; so Nagini, or…Harry stops.

When did you know that I was your seventh Horcrux? he asks flatly.

Riddle chuckles. _Prior Incantato_ , he says drawing out the words, is a curious spell. So is the spell that your mother had wrought upon you. The blood that I used to create my revival… it allows you to feel the magic around you. That was how I was able to touch you. And your magic, Harry, was very familiar. Riddle’s voice is a low hum. It _sang_ to me. So I knew; I had given you the power that may one day doom me.

Because you can only be vanquished by your own powers? Harry questions flatly. Not that I’m surprised, but that’s quite an arrogant assumption.

Riddle shrugs, not bothered by his skepticism. Say what you will. The moment I had touched you, I knew. And, Riddle leans closer, his eyes twinkle in amusement, But, enough with the introductions. I had never been someone to waste any time. Shall we?

At once, the fog descends and swirls. The room fades away.

Harry groans, a hand running across his hair. Not again, he snaps, finding it inside him to feel at once annoyed and exasperated. I think you’ve traumatized me enough, haven’t you? I think a duel between us would be better at this point. At least it’ll get my anger issues resolved.

Oh, Harry. Do I cause you unnecessary aggravation? Riddle grins. He is almost boyish like this, a rogue charm that complements his looks. I consider myself flattered.

Harry does not budge. I wasn’t dead, though, he says slowly. In my fourth year, when you came back alive. You can’t resurrect the living.

Riddle tilts his head. You are about to find out, then, he says. And this time, alone. These are my memories, and happy I am to show you, I have no desire to meet my future self. Riddle, for the first time, grimaces slightly, as if fending off an unpleasant chill. Harry raises his eyebrows. Walk in to the fog, if you can. If you are able. Riddle’s lips curve higher. You are curious, are you not? Surely, Harry, you do not feel scared?

Malfoy does a better job at baiting me, Harry says coolly, and he tucks his wand and turns. Just before the fog thickens, he catches a glimpse of Riddle’s face. Almost at once, Riddle’s smile drops and his eyes narrow. All mild amusement that had brimmed in his eyes before now vanish, and in place he sees Riddle’s teeth bared, his eyes furious and cold. He does not have time to ponder on the sudden change in the other boy, however; the fog soon surrounds him, and he is alone.

Harry sighs, and walks forth slowly, a blind man.

.

.

.

After the third task in his fourth year, Voldemort is a mess.

(I will kill him, _he is mine_!, Voldemort’s voice rings to him, after all these years; his screeching madness, his flaring magic—Voldemort’s presence follows him through the chase as Harry runs, and runs, a body of a dead boy cold and heavy in his arms, as he shoves away the image of his dead parents because he does not have time to shed tears. Voldemort screams, the furies upon his voice, desperation clinging upon his rage, I shall be the one to finish him!)

—and even then Voldemort had sounded unhinged and mad. Dumbledore had been quick to assure him, years later, that Voldemort had never known Harry was a Horcrux, so sure of his immortality and power he already had. He wouldn’t have killed you otherwise, don’t you think? Those words were left unspoken. They had relied on Voldemort’s hubris all those years ago; that Voldemort had believed in the prophecy that would doom either one of them— _for neither can live while the other survives_ —and cared only to look into wandlore and the twin cores that connected them; Voldemort had never, to Dumbledore’s knowledge, understood the blood that they shared and the duel souls that lived inside Harry. All those years ago. And Harry had agreed, they had parted amicably in his limbo state, and Harry was left to finish the Dark Lord off in a spectacular fashion.

Perhaps not the blood, then, Harry thinks, his heart pounding loudly, as his walks in tentative, small steps. Voldemort had never understood the protection that Lily Potter granted him. But soul magic…that was something Voldemort must have known, must have guessed.

And yet he had still killed me in the final battle, knowing that it would destroy his soul.

Now he stands, in the middle of the demolished graveyard. His younger self had already left; in place remains Voldemort’s wrath. The Death Eaters shift uneasily and look about, their stances clearly hesitant even under their cloaks and masks.

My Lord, Wormtail stutters, after a stilted, almost savage silence, and Harry curls his hands into his fists, reminding himself, that traitor had died, he had died…he looks to the silver hand for solace, remembers the last moments of Wormtail’s sorry life.

Voldemort speaks. The memory is sharper than the last; Voldemort positively shimmers with life, even if he is moving about in a stilted manner. He is adjusting to his newborn body, flexing his hands, touching his face with caution. His voice is clear and cold, his fury suppressed. In place is a sharp and concise command that demands to be obeyed.

“I will be gone,” he says, looking at the empty space where fourth-year Harry had disappeared just seconds before, “I have things I must do before…it is too late.” He narrows his eyes and raises a hand; at once, the Death Eaters kneel to their feet, their robes spreading out before them.

“And, there are things that you all must do, and prepare for, are there not?” he asks softly, and at once, the Death Eaters (foul beings they are, Harry thinks, his wand hand twitching, they deserve to die, every one of them; he must remind himself, it is a memory, a memory, only a vision) sink even lower on the ground, their bows desperate. They murmur their consent and acquiesce. Voldemort does not let his eyes linger to his followers, however; he looks at the towering Manor on the hill, shrouded in fog, and he being to walk.

My Lord? Wormtail’s voice is uncertain and faint. His voice stammers. Would you be needing—

“I shall be alone in this, Wormtail,” Voldemort whispers, and turns. He disappears.

Harry curses as he too, Apparates without a warning.

 

Voldemort stands in front of his ancestral house, his face in distaste and contempt. Harry stumbles with a loud crack, cursing, but Voldemort does not see him (obviously, Harry thinks, irked, but for a moment he had his wand trained to Voldemort, his breath heaving loudly) as he surveys the house in front of him. It had seen better times, but it is not the complete ruins Dumbledore would step into nearly two years later. The magical barriers are intact, and inside the house…Harry looks at Voldemort again. The pale face reveals nothing, except for a tinge of exhaustion. He is surprised that he did not notice it before.

But then again, I was too busy running away to notice any woes that he might have had, Harry thinks wryly. Anxiety creeps up at him. It has to do with the continuous presence of Dark Lords, deceased or not, memory notwithstanding. He wand is itching to be used. He has never, after all, shared a space with Voldemort without his blood rushing for attack. The stillness disturbs him and being a voyeur does not suit him. He grits his teeth and shifts his feet as he waits. Voldemort stands, alive as he had ever been, and he is staring at the doorstep, waiting, hesitating. Until he is not. 

He walks up to the crumbling steps to the House of Gaunt. His posture is almost regal in its execution and grace. Harry watches him, his mortal enemy and his damnation, and he, follows in the Dark Lord’s wake.  

.

.

.

Inside the hut, Voldemort wastes no time. He picks up the ring and looks at it. Harry stations himself in the far corner of the room, not quite feeling safe enough to tuck away his wand.

Voldemort slowly turns the ring between his thin fingers. His face is pale and withdrawn, and he does not look up, as if even now, he doubts the power of the Stone. The room is small and narrow for Voldemort’s frame, as his robes pool out and drags in the wake of his movements. He rolls the ring thrice, and lets it drop. It clatters to the floor with a hard thump. As with Dumbledore, the ritual is simple, perhaps even inadequate, considering whom the ring is summoning.

The fog does not come instantly; Voldemort narrows his eyes and seems to wait about with a distrustful air, almost anticipating to see his plan manifest into nothing. He seems almost resigned to its failure, thinking it a fool’s quest. The pale face is set into a cold sneer as he looks around. Harry awaits with him, holding onto his breath until—

Yes; and here comes Death, in his willowy form, his hooded shadows, his dark gaze. Here Death floats, in his amusement and riddles. Death merges out of the fog and smoke, his appearance slow to form. Voldemort watches Death materialize; his face does not change. But Harry can sense incredulity, perhaps even fear.

Ah, Tom Riddle, Death says. His voice is a soft rumble but it shakes the walls of the small hut. I was wondering when you would use the Stone. I was wondering whether you would have used it at all. Did you not find it worthy of you in your younger years?

I have come here to use it, have I not? Voldemort says coldly. Otherwise I would not be in this forsaken place.

And have you guessed the Stone’s price? Death is mirthful, his glee traversing around the fog, and Voldemort’s lips curl. For there is a heavy price to deliver a person who is not of this world…

I am aware, Voldemort says. He is detached and distanced. He is holding himself tersely as his eyes narrow. I am willing to pay the price.

For you are undoubtedly familiar with the fragments of souls, Death muses. Yes, you do not shy away from such things. What shall you ask of me, then? I await, and Death stresses the words with an acerbic air, with bated breath. What would have made you come, when you failed to do so in your youth?

Voldemort looks at the form of Death. He does not answer immediately, but it is not hesitation that keeps his words at bay. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, as if he wishes to find a trap ready for him, as if he expects Death to swindle his request. As if he is wondering whether his request is formidable at all.

Slowly he says,

I wish to resurrect the soul inside Harry Potter.

From his corner, Harry’s heart stops.

 

That boy, the Possessor of the Invisibility…Death wonders. Harry imagines a brow furrowing under that damned hood. But he is alive and well. You are betting on another future soul? His voice has dropped to a hissing whisper, his words laced with a mischievous joy, One that has not died as of yet?

There is a soul inside of that boy, Voldemort says flatly. I wish to save it, when the time comes.

Death laughs. It speaks of echoes and the shouts of another world, a deep throaty shrill that beckons the listener to drop down into the depths of the underworld. Harry backs away from the sound, even in a memory, and yet Voldemort does not flinch.

So you have finally realized your own folly, Death muses. I have wondered when you would recognize your own soul in that boy…a fool’s errand you have done all those years ago, Tom Riddle…

A mistake, Voldemort cuts in curtly, menacing. It shall not happen again.

There is no use provoking me, Tom Riddle, Death says. I have seen greater power wielded throughout time, and you are no Master who has yet to subdue the dead. Death chuckles. Perhaps if you find the remaining Hallows, we shall weave a different tale.

Voldemort sneers. He clutches the Stone tightly, his hands pale and tight with his anger. But his voice is controlled as he says, with careful emphasis, Possessing the Hallows shall come later. For now, I request the desired soul to be salvaged.

Why is it, Death says, all cordial and friendly intent, do you assume that you will be the one to end the boy’s life? He has escaped death trice now, has he not? Death laughs. Mayhap he shall emerge victorious still.

Voldemort snarls. That will not happen. But he reigns his anger at once. Be that may be, he says, in a more tempered tone. If the boy has his fool’s luck and I am deemed unfortunate, there are my remaining souls that shall save me. As shall the soul inside the boy, Death says. Twice, if this deed comes to pass.

Voldemort glare at Death with malicious dislike. He does not reply to that.

So the boy is your failsafe, Death says.

So he is, Voldemort answers back coldly.

Death inclines his hood and speaks slowly, placing each word on a taut line of balance. He is mockingly sympathetic. And if, Death speaks, the boy, with his fool’s luck and errand, he is able to destroy your remaining souls and emerges triumphant in your wizarding war? If he is able to destroy your souls and body both? What reply do you have for me?

Voldemort’s eyes widen, and his lips quiver as he snarls, you dare—

He stops himself. He is looking at Death with cold rage, and something else Harry has yet to have seen in Voldemort’s eyes until now. A bare and exposed emotion, so blatantly shown.

Fear.

It is a foreign look on the Dark Lord, for Voldemort is actively trying to suppress his baser emotions, and yet he fails. Fear is etched on his face as he studies Death warily, waiting, wavering.

Yes, I do so dare, Death says dryly, I believe I hold that right. Hubris has once destroyed you, Tom Riddle; there is no way of knowing whether this shall be so again.

Voldemort stiffens. I do not repeat my blunders, he says softly.

Death stays quiet, as if waiting for Voldemort to say something more, but there are no more words exchanged. Death lets out a low hiss.

I would like your Snake.

Voldemort’s head jerks at those words. His mouth is open, a furious glint to his eyes as he is ready to protest.

A life for a life, Possessor of the Stone. Death cuts through Voldemort’s unspoken words, his amusement replaced with a coldness, and the walls, once again, shakes. Voldemort does not try to speak, but his eyes are bright with indignation. Your Snake is alive and holds your soul; and so, when that foreseeable time comes, the soul inside that boy shall live, and your snake shall perish. I do not care, and here Death’s voice rises, cold and unmerciful, for the pitiful objects that you have retained your souls in. That was what you would have offered me if I did not speak out, was it not?

Voldemort stays silent, seething. Death laughs. There is no mirth held in this sound; at once, Harry thinks of ice fires, the dripping of wet stone within a dark cave, the screeching of the Inferi, with their hollow sockets and gaping mouths, staggering into a burning lake. Harry chokes back bile.

You must work to compromise what you seek, Death says, soft and menacing, I have been deceived by wizards once. And I too, do not repeat my own follies.

Voldemort keeps his silence, turning the ring in his hand. His eyes are unblinking, red and glowing, as he decides his answer. At long last, he says,

Then the soul within Nagini, for the soul inside Harry Potter.

Then let it be so, Death speaks, and he mock-bows. Inside the boy your soul shall live once more, if you, or any other mortal, gains the unfortunate chance to kill the soul within.

Harry stands still as the deal is sealed and the wind howls around him. He cannot think. His mind is a jumbled mess, a fragment of voices.

But I killed him—but he blasted the Killing Curse at me—but at King’s Cross I have seen his pitiful state—he was nothing but a corpse—he had killed his own soul with his own curse—he was dead, he was not to be pitied any longer—but Dumbledore said—

Ah, a voice interrupts, full of triumph, and that is where you erred, Potter, is it not?

Harry fires a spell at the sound, but a moment too late; Voldemort steps out into the shadows and the swirling wind, his red eyes following his movements, and Harry screams, but fingers descend upon him, grasping his chin tightly, covering his mouth and cuts off his voice. Voldemort’s eyes are brimming with fiery fire as he smiles savagely, wildly.

Have you enjoyed those memories? Voldemort asks, his voice a mocking coo, There was much Dumbledore did not inform you of, even in his death…he had always wanted to bury his old mistakes and move on…thought himself great enough…noble enough to carry out his deed and let the past lie…

With the last words, Voldemort laughs.

Was it entertaining, Potter, when you understood what your dear Headmaster had almost accomplished? Was it _enlightening_ , to see how Albus Dumbledore had deceived you at every turn, withholding vital information and trusting you to destroy me all the same? Voldemort’s lips twist. Or perhaps he had underestimated me, as I have done of you…

Harry tries to speak, but skeletal fingers hold onto his skin as he struggles; his wand is still gripped tightly in his hand, and all he must do is to—

None of that, Voldemort says; his wand is flown across the room, and Harry lets out a strangled hiss. He is disarmed and at the mercy of a looming Voldemort, who considers him with a keenness he does not care for. The hut is gone; once again, the wind forms a smoky presence around them.

This is still my dream, Harry manages to gasp out, And this does not—it shouldn’t change anything. I’ve gone back in time, haven’t I? You just handed me the ammunition to destroy you, if anything. The memories you’ve given me—all of this happened once, it does not need to be repeated again.

For a short second Voldemort looks irked; then, with a sigh, he lets go of him abruptly, and Harry stumbles to the floor, coughing and rubbing his tender jaw.

You are a fool if you think you can change time without consequences, Master of Death or not, Voldemort states flatly. You have not done away with me yet, Potter. Do not sing and dance your victory dances so soon.

Harry coughs and stands up. He puts up a bravado he does not feel. Quite the pessimist, aren’t you? Harry says roughly. Don’t worry, I’ll be rid of Quirrell and your damn Horcruxes before the year is done, and I will die trying, and his voice rises to a shout, he matches Voldemort’s previous fury with a determined vengeance.

You are quite the master at that, yes. Voldemort, strangely enough, subdues his own anger and malice with Harry’s onslaught. He looks indifferent as he looks at Harry, all traces of hunger and eagerness done, replaced with a disinterested look.

If you must take anything away from that disastrous war ten years ago, Potter, know this. The war was preventable, had it not been for the conceited speculations of Albus Dumbledore. I too, and here Voldemort smiles a wry smile, a look so foreign in that distorted face that Harry stares (for who was the Dark Lord, if not his fury and inhumane madness, his zeal to see Harry gone, to rule the wizarding world, to slaughter Muggles and innocents?) at a loss for words, I too, did not wish to spill blood that had held sacred magic.

Harry makes his voice come out. But you did.

And so I did. Voldemort does a small shrug. His body speaks for him: it was a small consequence, the spilling of the blood was necessary, but it was tedious, I did not wish for it. His dismissal makes Harry’s blood boil.

And you’ll slaughter them all again if you get what you want. His voice is shrill and angry. And all the Muggleborns too, while you’re at it. You can't say you want to prevent another war. You’ll thrive in it, just as you have done before.

You know nothing of me, boy, Voldemort says coolly, only the wild conjectures of Albus Dumbledore and the tidbits you managed to collect of my pitiful childhood. Then so be it. Revel in your newfound assumptions, and try to stop the forthcoming events with your meager mind. I shall await with great pleasure.

And with that, Voldemort jeers, and does a mocking bow as Death did unto him, and Harry is left alone, shaking and desiring revenge and blood. The blood of his foe, slit and left to spill until none is left. He craves vengeance, so that he may ignore the fear curdling inside him. After all these years, after everything…he does not examine his own trepidation, even inside his own thoughts.

This is how he wakes, cold shivers breaking out through his body, his face drenched in sweat. He curses Snape, the war, Dumbledore, Riddle, and every deity and Death that wished to make his life miserable even after the end of it all.

Not quite, a voice inside him speaks. He curses that voice as well, and wishes fervently for a painful death.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione is fascinated by the story of the Three Brothers, while Ron and Malfoy have a grand time debating the finer points of the story. They argued over the time, how the first brother had dueled vigorously only to have his throat slit (“He choked in his sleep, Weasley, obviously, the medieval wizards weren’t that barbaric, Merlin forbid,” Malfoy sneers, and Ron snaps back, “And choking someone is a gentleman’s way to go about it, eh, Malfoy?”), how the second brother had tried to revive both his fiancée and his mistress, which was why he had gone mad with grief (“I can see why this would have been censored from children bedtime stories,” Hermione says sensibly), and how the third brother had a grand time haunting his village on nights where there was no moon to shine upon the weary traveler (“What a riot that would have been,” Ron says, somewhat dreamily, and Malfoy gives Harry a look suggesting Ron Weasley was a dolt. “Weasley, he carried out noble quests with that cloak, he didn’t do anything as common as _scare off Muggle travelers_.” “Shut up, Malfoy, a fellow would have to let off the steam somewhere”). Harry listens patiently to their ramblings, trying to comb back through the evidence he might have missed, the gaps that should be filled in. They eventually do not reach a very satisfying conclusion and agree to meet on the following day (“This is becoming a very dirty habit of ours,” Malfoy grumbles to him as they walk to their classes, “What will Father say when he learns that I’ve been mingling with Gryffindors?” “Say that I’m casting the _Imperius_ at you,” Harry says, unruffled, but Malfoy glares at him, not appreciating his humor).

It should have been no surprise to anyone, therefore, when Harry steps into the Great Hall with a throbbing headache the day after, and sees Hermione furiously waving him over to an empty corner of the Slytherin table with a much less enthusiastic Ron sitting besides her.

“Malfoy was being a right berk about sitting down at the Gryffindor table again,” he grouses to Harry as soon as he comes over. “But you don’t see our housemates trying to hex us, do you?”

“Have they been?” Harry asks mildly, rubbing his temples and looking around their table. There are some upper classmen who meet his eyes, and they glare and jerk their chin at the two invading Gryffindors. Harry stares them down evenly, until one by one, they turn their eyes away with obvious reluctance.

“Fancy playing the hero at every turn, do you, Potter?” Malfoy grumbles, as Harry turns his attention back to them, “If you must know, I already gave them an excuse. We’re doing a research project for Potions, so mind your voice.”

“Charming, aren’t you,” Harry mutters, somewhat sharply. He takes a small sip of hot tea that quells down his nausea somewhat.

Malfoy stares at him as if he’s gone mad. When he speaks, his voice is several degrees colder. “Potter, should I remind you that you’re the one who had us do a madman’s chase about a fairy tale no wizarding child would have taken seriously at our age? But no, famous Harry Potter—”

“—had his parents killed off by Voldemort and therefore has no childhood to remember those nice cozy fairy tales,” Harry snaps at him. Ron flinches and Hermione looks away. For a second there is an uncomfortable silence, as Malfoy and Harry glare at each other, neither quite willing to relent first.

“Potter, your childhood trauma is getting old,” Malfoy finally says, “Talk to someone who actually cares.”

“Hey, that’s not—” Ron begins, but Harry cuts him off, shaking his head. Mornings had Malfoy at a prickly state, and that would not change when Malfoy was older; it shouldn’t have come off as a surprise.

“Right, glad we moved past that,” he says briskly. “So. I thought there was more to the old tale than the one in the book—but other than that…”  
“Well,” Hermione says anxiously, her eyes not quite recovering from Harry’s acid tone, as she looks at Harry and back down at the breakfast table, “It’s just that, maybe we’re looking at the wrong sources? If you want to learn about the tales of a bard, you’d first want to go over to the readings that talk about the history of the bards, the myths and their symbolisms…well, better to show you.”

With that, she tugs out a thick book out from her satchel and places it gingerly in the center of the table. _The Myths and Legends Surrounding the Peverell Brothers._ Hermione traces a finger alongside its cover.

Ron goggles at her. “You took out a history book on children’s fairy tales?”

Hermione looks peeved at Ron’s surprise. “People do read books other than Quidditch, Ron,” she points out, terse and ready for a snide response.

Harry stares down at the book and looks up at her. “What does it say about Death?” he asks quietly, and Hermione directs her exasperation to Harry.

“Oh, well, Death is the element that’s not quite true, isn’t he? Death as a figure, just coming out to put the brothers into a test…it’s obvious that the brothers made these three powerful relics for themselves, and they decided to spin up a wild tale to make it seem more plausible.”

 _Would you like to come inside my dreams and see for yourself? Death seems to be friendly enough these days, at least, he’s not speaking in riddles and puzzles anymore. He even dropped me off back in time to do everything all over again, fancy that. Except he obviously forgot to give me back my serenity and maturity because I feel like strangling Malfoy and Snape on a daily basis._ Harry refrains from rolling his eyes, or even worse, retorting back with his instincts. Hermione would appreciate his sarcasm even less than Malfoy had.

“I meant,” he says patiently, “The myth is about the three relics, but it’s also about Death, isn’t it? How wizards throughout time had tried to conquer Death, how it may be possible to fend mortality and be granted everlasting life…medieval wizards must have been fascinated with this stuff, that’s why we also have the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“I—that’s true,” Hermione says nodding, while Ron gawks at him.

“I thought you didn’t know the wizarding tales,” Ron says.

“No, I never said anything of the sort.” Harry feels it’s safe to make a face at Ron and smirks. “I just wanted to hear how properly raised wizards taught the stories to their kids—and yes, Malfoy, Ron’s a proper pureblood, shut it.”

Malfoy scowls.

“I would’ve thought that the tale of the three brothers would have been more sinister in your household, but it seems as if they chased after, er, higher pursuits,” Harry says to Malfoy, half-voicing out his thoughts. He picks up the book and wrinkles his nose at the pages. Diligent scholar is something he has never been, and a vision of a mocking Riddle comes at the forefront of his mind. He waves it away just as Malfoy sniffs with an insulted air. “Well, they were on a sacred quest to conquer Death, Potter,” he mutters, “They were of noble blood, not the hooligans Weasley makes them out to be.”

“What wrong with wanting to have a little fun and scaring off people?” Ron says indignantly. “They weren’t just hooligans, they—”

“They were very powerful wizards,” Hermione says, trying out for a conciliatory air. Malfoy just looks disgruntled as he nibbles on a piece of toast.

“I think,” Harry says carefully, his eyes still dubiously placed on the book in front of him, “That they were powerful, quite extraordinary, and that, well—”

“Or maybe.” Hermione says, raising an eyebrow at him, and Harry had just forgotten how impatient and observant Hermione had been, “You could just tell us what’s on your mind and you’ll tell you if it’s verifiable or—”

“—complete bollocks,” Ron finishes for her, and Hermione throws him a dirty look. “Yeah, so this way we don’t have to be huddled up in the library all day trying to make sense of what you mean.”

“If there is even a theory hidden inside that scarred head of yours,” Malfoy says waspishly.

Harry wishes Malfoy would be at the age to drink a decent cup of tea and transform into something remotely functional. As it is, he only rolls his eyes at Malfoy and says, “I think we need to get the Stone in the third corridor before the holidays. And then…” we go ahead and kill Voldemort when we go to confront Quirrell, but who _is_ this Voldemort? How does he know of Harry and the Horcrux lying low inside of him? “We’ll figure something out. I’ll tell you then.”

“You’ll be weaving up a splendid lie at that point, you mean,” Malfoy says. “The Three Brothers’ Tale didn’t just suddenly pop out of your head, Potter. You can’t just expect us to follow you on a wild goose chase.”

“It didn’t,” Harry agrees easily, “And I don’t think I can tell you. At this point, at least.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes at him, and even Ron looks doubtful. It is Hermione who recovers first. “Then I’ll be taking the book with me for bedtime reading, just in case,” she says, and takes the book off the table with a meaningful look at Harry. “I’ll try to look up how death works into all this, but,” she pauses, “I really do think it’s a symbolism thing more than anything. I mean, really.”

“Whatever you find, Hermione,” Harry says earnestly, not quite looking at her. Just then, Snape strolls into the Hall, and while he looks quite disgusted at the two Gryffindors stationed in his House table, he does not come up to them to take off points. He looks into Harry’s eyes briefly before sweeping down the aisle with his robes. Harry understands the message to mean that they would be having a talk later, which would consist in Snape hurling insults and demanding answers, and Harry would be shouting out how Snape’s Dreamless was a complete cock-up and should not be used for children suffering from mass murderers and war trauma.

And since when had he been well-versed in reading Snape’s body language? Harry swallows back a sigh.

.

.

.

“I’d like to free my godfather,” Harry says, polite and demurred, the moment he steps inside Snape’s office.

Snape looks at him as he would a disgusting flea. Or perhaps that was the way he had always looked at Harry, he can’t be too sure at this point. Snape gestures sharply to the door.

“Shut the door before you decide to sprout delusional nonsense,” Snape says coldly. He is as foreboding as he had been last night, with his waspish voice and sneering lips, but there is also a deep weariness hanging around his eyes that had not been there before. Snape must not have slept at all, Harry notes, glancing at the books strewn on Snape’s desks.

“ _The Theory of Time Travel and Parallel Universes_ ,” he reads one title aloud, and frowns. He reads another. “ _The Wizards Who Travelled Through Time and the Impracticalities of the Time-Turner_ …really, sir, you’re not being very subtle at this.”

“If you are anything like your father, I would have thought that subtlety would not have been your finer attributes,” Snape sneers. “I was hoping you would enlighten me on that account.” He pauses, seeming to fumble back into his memories to keep track of Harry’s disastrous relatives. “And your godfather, Potter, is currently rotting away in Azkaban for blowing up thirteen murders and a wizard by the name of Peter—”

“Wormtail, I know,” Harry interrupts, and hurries on forth as Snape gives him a murderous glare, “And seeing as how we’re discussing Time-Turners and you have a very nice theory of me coming from the future at this point—”

“I do not,” Snape cuts in, but Harry overrides him with a louder voice.

“—and since I happen to know a lot of things about you, it should be only fair that I know some things about Sirius Black as well, isn’t it?” He is proud of the way that he does not stumble across his old godfather’s way, proud of the way he speaks in a detached, disinterested tone. He is in all aspects, pleasantly asking the acquittal of an innocent man. He shoulders on. “Sirius is innocent, and Wormtail is alive. And, well.” He makes a vague hand gesture at his body, signaling his small frame and school robes, and makes another wave at Snape, with his teaching robes and taller height. Snape’s lips thin in disapproval. “I’m not exactly in a place to submit a plea to the Wizengamot for an appeal.” He settles his voice into a cajoling tone. “He didn’t even get a trial for his crimes.”

“As was fit at that time.” Snape is hardly sympathetic to Sirius’s plight, but then, Harry cannot be too surprised at this. Snape had never been sympathetic to most of Harry’s grandiose plans that might include the rescue of any Marauder. “Seeing how well you know me, then, Mr. Potter, perhaps it has not escaped your mind that Black and I have never been quite amicable towards each other. As such, I would rather much keep Black locked up, if not for the death of those Muggles, then at least for the crimes he had committed during his time at Hogwarts.”

“Like trying to kill you when he baited you with a werewolf?” Harry says.

Snape scowls, but answers in a neutral tone. “Quite.” He does not seem too eager to roar profanities at Harry, which he takes as a good sign. Instead, Snape walks over to his desk and taps a thin finger against one of the open pages of a book. Another time-travel theory, no doubt. “And I can see you have no desire to hide your little secret from me. I wonder why that is.” Snape’s lips curl. “And do not try to get into my good graces by waxing poetry about how I am the Head of your House and you _trust_ me. I see too much animosity in your eyes to believe that, Potter.”

“Was worth a try,” Harry says, unabashed. He shrugs and stamps down his pride for the time being. What he was about to say was true, but just because he had some good opinions about Snape after the man’s untimely death, it didn’t mean he had to flatter the man. “You’ve fought in the First War. You know how _he_ works. And time—right now, at least— is not going as I wanted it to go.” _I was expecting to clear out four Horcruxes by this point_ , he does not say. “I’ve made some new revelations that are quite frightening.” _I’m thinking that one of Voldemort’s soul is still inside me, or maybe I shouldn’t trust my dreams that much? I fought a madman’s war and now I’m on another madman’s quest._  “And well, with all due respect, you’re no saint, sir, but you’re proficient in the Dark Arts and I…” he hesitates. _I’d like to know some curse to throw around, because I have a very keen premonition that I would be needing it soon. Call it my newfound paranoia._ “I think I could learn to use them to my advantage, sir. When the time comes.”

“You want me to train you into a solider,” Snape says flatly. “How reassuring to know what the future might hold for us. Have we lost?”

Harry looks at him blankly. “Sir?”

“You told me,” Snape says slowly, as if he is talking to an invalid whose presence he must tolerate, “just the other night, that the Dark Lord will return. As this did not happen yet, I am assuming…from my pet theory (Snape throws a dark look at his desk and Harry does his best to look innocent) that this will be the future you are speaking of. And now you stand here, despite your knowledge of my own actions in the last war, asking me to teach you something that the Headmaster may have my head for. So tell me, has that war ended in dismal? An apocalypse? Are we all to die and dig out our own graves?” Snape looks down at Harry, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

Harry wavers. Well, you die. But don’t worry, I’m supposed to die too. Well, I mean—it didn’t go _too_ badly, but we could have done better. The war was a fiasco on both sides, it was sheer luck we made it that far. Well, there were a lot of variables that could have changed. People could have lived by not making stupid mistakes (me) or letting go of some grudges (you) and not relying on a damned prophecy that was up for interpretation (possibly everyone ever). What should we start with?

And then Harry realizes, Snape is staring at him without blinking, with an unusual amount of concentration. A chill washes over him, as his mind is carefully shoved with a light wind, and without a thought, Harry’s shields snap up violently, his mind a clear, cold blank.

Snape blinks and shakes his head a little. “I wasn’t—” he starts.

“You were about to,” Harry snaps back hotly, glaring at Snape whose face becomes a perfect blank. “I don’t really appreciate it when you’re trying to read my mind, Snape.”

“ _Professor_ , Potter. Where are your affected manners when you need them?” Snape says lightly, his own face not revealing any emotions. Certainly not remorse or embarrassment at having been found out. He bares his teeth at the man and immediately averts his eyes.

“Well,” Snape says slowly, after an unsettling silence passes over them, “If you’re not willing to answer my questions—”

“We did win the war,” Harry cuts in, weary and snappish all at once, feeling frustrated and tired, his mind begging to be put to rest once more so that he may engage in mind torture with memories that were not his own, “But winning isn’t everything, not when we could have done things better. When it actually doesn’t feel like we’ve won, most days.”

Snape is silent at that outburst, his eyes curiously flat. Harry thinks that maybe he had been wrong all this time, thinking Snape was a good man capable of regret, that he had deeply grieved the memories of his mother…perhaps the past was not a stabilizing force as he thought it would have been. A cold dread settles into Harry.

“Do you think,” Snape says slowly, and Harry slowly looks back at the man. Snape is looking steadily at him, but there are no more attempts to poke inside his mind. Snape is very still, his lips barely moving. “That with your knowledge, you could prevent your disastrous war?” He is not biting, goading; he is merely asking.

Harry sees it then; it is only a small opening, a small crevice that Harry knows he is not supposed to see. A tiny crack of Snape’s mask. He wouldn’t have found it, once upon a time, when he had been truly young and thought Snape capable of inhumane murder and tortures. When the world was only a deep divide between good and evil, and there was nothing to mend the schism. But he is not that boy anymore, and he sees what he had been looking for. It is a Snape craving amends.

That small rift is all Harry ever needed. He nods quickly at Snape. “Not prevent it entirely,” he says, “But before it turns…hopeless.” He wets his lips. Before Voldemort regains his true powers and overtakes the Ministry, and before it would be up to only three teenagers to locate the pieces of Voldemort’s soul. Before Voldemort decides to destruct Hogwarts and we light up bonfires to commemorate the dead who had been all too young to die. He does not allude to such a disaster. He shakes his head a little. “I do need you, Professor,” he says, making sure his voice does not sound wheedling or even desperate. Snape would not tolerate such weaknesses, even at such a time. “Because you don’t care about me, not really, I don’t think you care about the fate of the wizarding world to be honest—but you do care about Lily Potter’s death, and you did want vengeance once.” He does not take his eyes off Snape. “You wanted him dead. Wasn’t that why you would have protected me?” he asks softly.

Snape does not speak for a long time. In the room, there is only the rhythmic sound of their breathing, the flickering candles illuminating their faces, the walls solid and still, watching and waiting.

“What will you have me do with Black’s acquittal?” Snape finally says, his face sour, each words reluctantly pulled out of him. Harry breaks into a grin. “And you better have that mutt do something useful to earn his keep, Potter. I will not tolerate any sentimental tears.”

.

.

.

“You need my rat for _what_?”

Ron is looking at him in a very baffled manner. He had been very terrified when Harry had asked him to step inside Snape’s office (“Why would I want to go there to sacrifice my rat?” Ron said, quite horrified at the prospect of his pet being used as a Potions experiment—“We’re not going to slice him off, Ron, and it’s not a sacrifice ritual,” Harry said patiently, while Malfoy chortled at Ron’s obvious discomfort) and had very reluctantly let himself be dragged into the dungeons at lunchtime (“Harry, I have to tell you, Scabbers is part of my family, I would never let you just harm him.” “Ron, you don’t even like your rat,” Harry said, at that time running out comforting things to say, and Ron whimpered at him, “He bit Goyle for us once!”) now in the presence of one irritated Snape.

“This,” Snape says, with the full disdain and disgust that the situation did not need, in his own sensible opinion, “is Peter Pettigrew?”

“The one and only,” Harry says cheerfully, hiding a wince when Scabbers bites into his hand and sinks his pointy teeth into the flesh. He congratulates himself on his foresight to handle the rat himself, as Ron would have sooner let his rat go free rather than persevere with the pain of Scabber’s bite.

“He’s not a person! He’s a rat!” Ron says. It was the only thing Ron had been saying for the past ten minutes, standing awkwardly amongst Snape’s bottled jars of slime and bottled parts. “And why would you even need my rat to do—whatever it is—this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“Weasley, five points from Gryffindor. (Ron properly looks mutinous at this.) Potter, if you’re not going to shut up your companion and make him see sense, I will happily chase the both of you out in a heartbeat. Don’t think I won’t.”

“He’s an Animagus, Ron,” Harry says, his voice not quite able to mask his yelp as Wormtail bites him a second time. “And, look here—see? He can understand what we’re saying, why else would he try to get away from me?”

Ron looks at him as if Harry had gone crazy. “Because you’re handling him the wrong way?” he says, quite incredulous, “Because he doesn’t like dark and dank places? (“Merlin help me,” Snape mutters.) I don’t know Harry, why don’t you try to be manhandled into a situation that you don’t like?” Ron was turning sullen and quite rude, and then Snape would turn nasty and impossible in turn, and right now, Harry did not need that on his hands.

“Professor?” he asks (screeches, Snape would inform him later). “Now would be a good time to turn that spell loose.”

“You’re going to hurt him?” Ron goes white. “A—a, what? Harry, you said it wouldn’t hurt!”

“He’s not an ordinary rat, so it wouldn’t!” Harry exclaims, trying to vent out his frustration out other than his younger version of a friend and ends up squeezing the rat a little too hard in the process. Ron makes a small choking sound.

Snape, with the air of a resigned martyr, raises his wand. “I do sincerely hope,” he says acidly, “that this isn’t some madness inherited from your father’s side.” Snape, thankfully, had stashed out all his time-travel theory books out of sight; the desk was littered with potion debris and other inconsequential matters. He mutters the spell, and out comes Peter Pettigrew. Harry can’t help but feel a small relief at his, and Snape’s eyes grow wide as the spell unravels. So the man was able to feel surprise, Harry thinks, somewhat satisfied.  Harry unfolds his fingers and steps back, watching the rat grow and form into a hunched man. As soon as the man is able to stand on his own two teeth, Harry lurches forth.

He is faster than the pleas that would soon pass Wormtail’s lips. Without even waiting for Ron’s surprised shout, Harry is upon the man, his wand at hand, pointing between the eyes of the trembling man.

Time has not been kind to Wormtail. Truth to be told, time never has never been kind to the man. He is forever donned in ragged clothes and twitching in Harry’s memory, begging for mercy and pleading for his life to which Harry eventually succumbs to. Had he regretted it? The answer is always muddled at best. Harry had sometimes wondered about him—although his musing did not last when Wormtail was quick to hand him over to Voldemort the following year—the man who was so quick to beseech him when it was he that had led the Potters to their deaths. Those were Peter Pettigrew’s choices in the war; ones he had lived with after the fall of Voldemort. He wonders whether Wormtail had felt remorse, whether he was scared to die as he had sealed his betrayal, whether the war inflicted good people to make terrible choices that they would later regret. He wonders if he would have liked the man Peter Pettigrew had been once before the war. He will never find out, not in any timeline. Sirius is much too dear for him to quench his morbid curiosity. Wormtail stands before Harry, with his watery, small eyes, and his lips curve downwards in a wobbly pout. He is already about to beg for mercy, but Harry’s wand stops him short.

“You will testify under Veritaserum,” he says. “You will turn yourself in to the Wizengamot and have a trial and by doing this, you will get Sirius acquitted, or so help me—” he stops. The furies overtake him, his mind a howling mess of intent and savagery. _Kill kill kill…_

 

Harry, sometimes I think it’s a problem. When you don’t talk about anything to anyone. Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind? Hermione’s voice inside his mind; a cold windy day it was, another year gone, and a new year that awaited him. He was in the living room with his wand hanging uselessly about, watching at the flickering fire. He had heard her come in the room and did not bother to greet her. She was not wanted in his moments of weakness, and yet she came. She always did.

There’s nothing on my mind, Harry said, and Hermione, with her ever-patient sigh and her ever-cajoling voice, protested against his denials, and all those things had grated on Harry’s ears that very day.

Oh, Harry, she said. You always have something on your mind these days, one thing or another, and you never say anything. Who would you tell them to? She stopped. _Harry_ , she said in a reasonable voice (and Harry had hated her sensibility, too, at that time), the way you’re hanging about in the house, it’s not safe, it’s not—

Normal? Harry snaps, and with that, Hermione had closed her lips and Harry resorted to shouting (and Harry was glad Ron was not there; he was out to become an Auror and save the crumbling world, no, Ron was not hiding away from the post-war as Harry was, Ron had done his own share of grieving and ready to move on), Believe me, Hermione, when I’m done being a kid inside my own house, I’ll be sure to tell you, yeah? But today’s not that day.

You know that’s not what I meant. Harry had shouted at her long enough for Hermione to be unaffected to his outbursts. He wondered if that was a good thing. She did not cry now, at any rate. It’s just that…Harry, there are people other than Teddy that want to see you. You never see anyone.

I see you, Harry pointed out. I see Ron and Ginny.

You never go to the Burrows. You’ve never met my parents. Don’t you want to meet my parents? Hermione’s voice broke. Harry, I know that there’s no time limit to recover from anything. I’m not saying you should move about normally. I’m just saying, you’re not doing yourself any favors, locked up like this. And, when Harry did not answer her, she cried, Don’t you want to get better?

Not really, no, Harry said to her coldly, I don’t see how anything could be better. Seeing how as I almost died.

That always unnerved her, back then and even years later. It was his worst card to play, the fact that he died and came back so willingly, and he considered every argument over and won with Hermione when he brought up his own death. There was nothing to hurl in the face of such a terrible _what-if._ And it worked at that time as well, without fail. He stared back into the fire and did not move until Hermione’s footsteps rang down the hallway and slammed the front door. At least he moved the portrait down in the entrance. Blasted it, in fact, the moment his nightmares craved blood and he had nothing to offer them save for a cankerous old lady, already dead and hollering about.

 

He hears Hermione’s rebuke now, words that have mellowed out over the years. He can credit Hermione for her resilience at least, he thinks, reigning in his baser desires to slash Wormtail in front of him, who is floundering and opening his mouth, a gaping fish.

“You won’t run away, right, Peter?” he asks quietly, pushing back his murderous rage and allowing a cold feeling to wash over him. “You won’t turn yourself back to a sniveling rat?”

Behind him, Ron had fallen into silence. Snape is also watching the exchange with a wary eye, but does nothing to stop him. The only sound comes from Wormtail, his quick, frantic gasps contained in the thick stone walls.

“I—no, of course not—Harry, my boy, you must show me mercy—I—” Wormtail says, his words erratic, and Snape saves him further humiliation and flicks his wand. Harry steps back. Wormtail is bound tightly in thin cords along with his mouth, so that he may not continue to plead for his supposed innocence.

“I shall take it from here,” Snape says, his expression inscrutable.

Harry does not bring it upon himself to reply, so he makes do with a sharp nod. Ron takes a few steps towards him, his eyes very wide and scared, but at least he is not running away from Harry with a mighty shout. Harry tries to make a little jerk, to suggest that they get out of the room. It’s only a small twitch, but Ron gets it and immediately they turn towards the door.

“Mmmrrrphh!”

There is a loud thump behind them, and Harry turns back again. Snape is kneeling besides Wormtail, his face cold as he assesses his captive. Snape looks at the man with blatant disgust, but he reluctantly turns his head and meets Harry’s eyes.

“He would like to say something, it seems,” he says flatly.

Harry gives a tiny nod.

The ropes that bind Wormtail’s mouth are slightly loosened, and the man lets out a very loud gasp of breath before he rushes forth his words, afraid that they would be swallowed once again by an onslaught of ropes.

“Harry,” he rasps, “I don’t know how you found out, how you knew, after all these years—but, I do regret it. I do. They were my friends too. James and Lily—”

“That will do,” Snape says, his voice colder than before, the bindings shoved roughly inside Wormtail’s mouth. “Worthless words out of an old traitor, I would not have expected anything else.” His eyes had flashed at Lily’s name, and Harry sees Snape’s own anger, can even understand it. Snape’s rage was close to his own demons, back at Gimmauld Place when he had no one to yell to, except towards a relentless Hermione.

Harry stands rooted, looking into the eyes of a man whom he once saved, who had once repaid him back by slashing his arm to resurrect his master, who had, at the end of his life, shown hesitation to kill Harry, which had led to his own death. He remembers a man that Wormtail had become, once, and reminds himself that this Wormtail has yet to be that man. This Wormtail was the in-between. And if Harry can see this, then he may also be able to see—there must have been something inside Wormtail once. Be that a petty desire to be great or a fervent desire to live up to his best friends, there must have been something in Wormtail that made him a Marauder.

He nods. It is a quick nod, barely noticeable, but he knows that Wormtail sees it, the way he stops struggling in his bonded ropes. Without a word, he turns, and walks out of the door, Ron at his side, not asking about his old pet’s cryptic words, nor about Harry’s peculiar response.

Later, out of the dungeons and in the wider corridors, Ron only says, with some justified disgust, “Blimey! And I’ve been letting him sleep on my _bed_!” and at those words, Harry grins at him and shrugs in a helpless manner. Ron breaks out into a small laugh, calls the endeavour madness, and Harry cracks up alongside him, hysteria and euphoria rolling past him, and they are left giggling themselves silly as the eleven-year-olds they are made out to be.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The plot is going somewhere. The story is only going to be a giant roller coaster from here--please heed the warnings in the tags and please remember that this is really not a fix-it fic. There is time travel, but there are also...a lot of other things.

Harry steps into Snape’s office, ready to pester the man until he would send a letter of inquiry to the Ministry. Snape had yet to open his mouth, and it had been the same each day for the rest of the week: Harry would stay moody and terse at breakfast, Snape would avoid his eyes, and Malfoy would dramatically roll his eyes and snipe at him to no avail. Everyone was miserable, it suited him just fine. He would not rest until Wormtail was behind bars and Sirius was free; and until then, Snape could wrestle with the ghosts of his own misdoings that he was to find in Harry’s green eyes.

In Potions class he had been burning holes with his eyes behind Snape’s back and sliced up the flobberworms in a haphazard way until Malfoy all but growled and shoved Harry out of harm’s way as the cauldron bubbled furiously.

“My hero,” Harry said, not taking his eyes off Snape.

“Stop talking, unless you actually mean the rot that comes out of your mouth, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. They’ve taken to pairing up, and it was a boon to be standing next to Malfoy, who seemed to know his ingredients with an ease that Harry only expected out of Hermione. He had tried complimenting Malfoy at that score (“Merlin, Malfoy, I didn’t know you had skills that might make your family proud.”) which Malfoy did not quite take the right way (“Potter, you insult my family again and I’ll tell you what a dirty Mudblood witch your dead mother had been.”) and had led to quite an ugly scuffle. He had curbed his sarcasm and let Malfoy stir out their potion sullenly and peacefully.

“Should I—” Harry reached for the crushed beetle eyes, not quite looking to see where they were. His fingernails scraped the wooden table.

“No, be my guest and continue to stare at our Head and try to read his mind, I doubt you’ll succeed,” Malfoy muttered, but just then, class was dismissed, and Snape walked over to their table and inspected their cauldron with a bored air.

“In my office, Potter,” he had said, waving his wand and making the Potion disappear, “And next class, do try to act up a half-hearted attempt to mimic Mr. Malfoy’s skills. I daresay you may need them.”

And with that, Harry trots after Snape’s footsteps, into his office, where nasty things often happened to him for inscrutable reasons. He enters, expecting a telling-off or yet another session of suspicious eye movements until he would be dismissed. Or perhaps they would kill each other with their stares, Harry at this point is quite ready to do that at this point.

He pushes open the door and walks in, and there stands Sirius.

“Harry,” he says. Sirius seemed to have been pacing around the small room and abruptly stops as he sees Snape and Harry standing in the doorway. He does not register Snape’s sneer (or perhaps opts to ignore it), his eyes only for Harry. He is in his ragged clothes, and his black hair is tangled and dirty. He looks like a convict, is a convict, just like all those years ago back at the Shrieking Shack, the same maddened eyes, the same haunted voice. He repeats his name.

“Harry,” he croaks. His hands grapple at something until he curls them into fists. His eyes are wide. “Is it really you?” As if he does not believe the scrawny boy standing before him. As if he does not quite believe where he is, who he is indebted towards.

“Shall I stay here?” Snape says, and by his tone, he wants to do anything but. Harry gives a small shake, and tries to say something. A thank you would not stand amiss; an acknowledgement of Snape’s deeds should be mentioned. A sob is clogged inside his throat and he cannot even manage a simple _sir_. Snape saves him the mortification and steps away, pushes him none too gently into the small room. He shuts the door behind him, and. There they are, together and alone.

Harry stares.

Hullo, Sirius, he imagines. You've never met me before and I shouldn’t know you, but I’ve seen you in my dreams. Or in another life, but never mind that, you’d think me barmy and anyways, that life wasn’t a very happy one. You ride a ridiculous motorcycle and it makes a horrible roaring noise when it races across the night sky and the Muggles all look up to see what the racket is about. Or, yes, I know that didn’t actually happen but I sometimes think you were the one to deliver me to the Dursleys instead of Hagrid, only at the last minute you decide to kidnap me back you your place and raise me as your son. And mind, this is a world where you’re actually a responsible adult and you don’t go off in an irrational rage to find Pettigrew, so you’re a free man and you can raise me just fine, blood wards be damned. But unfortunately you _do_ go ahead and try to get your own justice and so I don’t get that wonderful childhood of mine, but that’s okay because what I’m trying to say is that you’re going to do that for me now, aren’t you, I mean, let me ride your stupid loud motorcycle and buy me ridiculously expensive brooms and not go ahead to a reckless fight and kill yourself.

Or maybe not, Sirius, maybe not. You’ll just offer me a home right now, and I will say yes immediately, even though I am not supposed to know you yet and it's dangerous, but I don’t care because in another timeline I really didn’t know you when you actually offered and yet I still said yes immediately. The Dursleys were that horrible, you see. You would think, that after a cupboard and a drafty old bedroom I would have trust issues, but I didn’t, not when it came to you, and I wanted to live with you so much even back then, because you were offering me a home, you were offering me a chance to be free and I was so sure, even with your disheveled hair and wild eyes, that you would do me no harm, _I just knew_. Turned out I was right anyway, yeah? So you’ll take me away and I can pretend now you are truly alive. Because you are, you’re standing right here. So I can just touch you, just like that.

Right, Sirius?  
He opens his mouth. Chokes a little.

“Harry?” Sirius says, voice small and hesitant.

And he cannot say those words jumbled inside his mind. All he needs is a word from his godfather, and he is a blubbering mess. He is thirteen again in another lifetime, overwhelmed and scared and just very happy that someone in this world can offer him a home.

Someone hugs him. He cries and cries, and the arms around him tighten, and a soft hissing voice soothes him, hush, hush, Harry, it’s okay now, and Sirius is very awkward at comforting people yet he somehow does it for Harry, this poor man who had rotted in Azkaban and tormented by his own demons, and this makes him laugh through his tears. Sirius laughs a little too, chokes and murmurs, Harry it’s okay, I got you.

It is a lie, but Harry is comforted by it, if only because Sirius does truly believe in such a future. Sirius, you are alive. He does not say.

They stay like that for quite awhile.

.

.

.

The last thing he remembers: he is about to send Snape a note, to thank him, perhaps, or he was walking down to the dungeons late at night, to try to talk to the man and get a reaction out of him, discuss his condition as a time traveler and coax Snape into cooperation and manipulation. Or maybe not. He is still in Sirius’s arms, basking in the filth and dirt from Sirius’s body, and after they both recover, the first thing out of Sirius’s mouth is “Harry, Merlin, I can’t believe you’re in Slytherin, what am I going to tell James?” and it is said in such a fond way that Harry finds himself laughing and choking all at once, as Sirius continues, mock-offended but his voice cracks as he continues on “And now I’m indebted towards Slytherins! Horrible, just awful.” And for a time they just stand there, grinning and staring at one another, until Sirius breaks first and the jokes are gone, his eyes going very soft and sad, as he murmurs, “You’re all grown up now, Harry,” and Harry opens his mouth to try to say something comforting to his godfather, he does, he will, but.

The world goes black.

.

.

.

He hears a voice. A familiar, snide voice, older than he expects it to be. Not the childish, endearing Malfoy who would chop up his shriveled worms for him, not the Malfoy who cannot even throw a decent hex. Not the Malfoy he is used to seeing every morning, with his tousled hair and his pale eyes not yet filled with cold hostility. The Malfoy he knew, who he had left behind to be eaten alive in Azkaban. He hears footsteps.

“Potter, I don’t know why you’re so keen to make such a horrible racket in the mornings, but some of us—”

Malfoy’s voice floats in the air and hovers; stops. Harry thinks, get on with it Malfoy, speak up, I lost you for a bit there.

Malfoy’s pause lasts for a short while, but the moment is enough to make him aware of how heavy his eyelids are, how unmoving his body is. He tries to open his eyes and finds them to be deadweight.

“…Potter?”

Malfoy again. But his voice is now tinged with an edge of fear. That was new—no, wait, Harry thinks. He did hear such terror before. But it was in a dream, surely; Malfoy was not really captured by the Aurors and thrown in Azkaban. It was a morbid fantasy, something Harry wished in his darkest hours. It wasn't supposed to really happen.

There is a great thumping on the floors, and he is shaken by a rough hand. “Potter?” Malfoy repeats, louder. And Harry can hear him quite well, he wishes to tell Malfoy that there was no need to shout so loudly. Don’t be an overdramatic queen, Malfoy. He’d like to see how Malfoy would take that particular tone of his. “Potter!” He would really, open his mouth, only to make Malfoy go away. He was such a nuisance sometimes, wasn’t he? He tries to move. All is futile.

“Kreacher!” Malfoy’s voice is distant, and he feels his body warm up. Malfoy is using spells on him. Not a wise move Malfoy, he wants to say. The Aurors might come barging in. But of course, he is stuck, immobile. He cannot give Malfoy the proper warning. Malfoy throws spell after spell upon him. Your wand has a spell limit, you moron, Harry wants to say. Stop endangering yourself for other people, you were doing so well on that regard, too.

And then soon, the Aurors show up, and he hears the familiar screeching, the pure terror wrested from Malfoy’s mouth—POTTER, I DIDN’T KILL POTTER!—and Harry wishes to say, of course not, Malfoy’s learnt his lesson, he won’t meddle into the Dark Arts any longer, he’s not a murderer,

but he soon falls unconscious. Black overtakes him.

.

.

.

A ringing sound. A sob. A voice.

He wants to wake up. I had the most beautiful dream, he wants to say. I imagined Sirius back again, and this time he was really free, he won’t be on the run anymore, his name was cleared and he’s going to offer me a home.

I had a dream. I was eleven, and I was sorted in Slytherin but Ron and Hermione were still my friends and even Malfoy was a tolerable prat when he was younger and no Dark Lords tried to control him. I was trying to kill Voldemort. I guess I backtracked and tried to save everything at once. It’s so hard to do everything again, did you know? You want to do everything; you want to _be_ everything. You want to save the world but you also want to stay and talk with your friends who had once been innocent. You want to bask in the childhood that never was. You want to talk to everyone whom you had once shunned, you wish to make amends with the dead. No wonder wizards and witches go mad, those who meddle with time. You revel in the fact that you’re playing God to the ignorant. You alone know what is to come, but you have no way to stop the inevitable.

A voice. A name.

It’s Malfoy, there’s no other person. Harry’s too private these days, he doesn’t even go out—

Will he wake? I’m feeling his pulse, he’s not breathing, you must tell me—

Harry, Harry, can you hear me?

Yes, he thinks, I can hear you just fine, Hermione, please don’t nag, you’re just as bad as your eleven-year-old self had been. But he is too tired to speak. Another voice cuts off his thoughts. Soothing, that voice is. Rich and amused, it washes over him.

Sleep, this voice croons.

He listens to the voice.

.

.

.

When he finally wakes up, he is in a white bed inside a white, bare room. It reminds him of mental wards from old Muggle movies, where hysterical people repeatedly scream, I’m not mad, I’m not mad! He refrains from doing just that, and carefully looks around.

“You’re awake.”

And turns his head. Hermione must have been sitting in the very uncomfortable looking chair next to him, and now she is standing up, the chair toppling in her haste. Her eyes are very wide. She does not even stop to listen to his reply before she sends off a Patronus to Ron and repeats, in a hoarse tone, “He’s awake, Ron!” and her otter goes scurrying off. Harry stares at her.

Oh, he thinks blearily. So I’m back. He flexes his fingers. He knows from Hermione’s aged face, from the way his body is weary and worn, from the way the voice inside his head agrees. So, you’re back.

He tries to smile at Hermione, but she is more vicious and angry than Harry had ever remembered her as. “Don’t you start, Harry James Potter!” she snaps, her finger pointing at him. Her eyes blaze. He drops the smile and feels his face sag. Her eyes accuse him. I was worried about you, we were so worried about you, are you trying to get yourself killed? The same pleadings for the past many years all flow back into his mind. Perhaps Hermione as a child was always very docile and quiet, or at least the Hermione Harry had left behind, and he had made her into a raging woman. Or perhaps, it was all a wonderful dream, a world in which he had the ability to fix everything that had happened, except, really, he hadn’t fixed anything, the world had become more complicated.

Ron comes barging into the room. Older, taller Ron. He does not choke up like Hermione, nor does he point fingers and starts screeching. He takes one look at Harry and nods tightly.

“Okay, good,” he says, out of breath. He takes a quick look at Hermione. “Good, he’s alive.” Harry wants to laugh. Ron, you’re always so late for everything. He bites his lips lest he sounds hysterical.

“Of _course_ he’s alive,” Hermione says, but in a much calmer voice. She even manages to make her voice sound scornful. She plops back down to her uncomfortable chair and Ron steps in, drawing a chair that had been stashed against the wall. He sits down carefully, as if Harry would suddenly drop dead the moment there was a loud racket. Harry clears his throat and tries to get his mouth moving.

“So,” he says. His voice is deeper. He sounds tired. “How long has it been?”

Ron and Hermione exchange a look.

“Weeks,” they both say. They do not offer how they had been, what they have been doing. He sees it all in their eyes. He sees what they have thought, how they might have steeled themselves from the worst. Well, he thinks, it’s nice to know that they care, after all these years. It was a funny thought; he banishes it immediately.

.

.

.

Hermione was the one who found him with the knife.

It was years ago, Hermione, let it go now, will you. Harry would say on the nights when Hermione was drunk enough to stare at him and touch him tentatively, as if he would disappear into the thin air. She would never do this when she was in her right mind. Sober and in control, she would talk about the traumas of war and what it may do to people, give him books on soldiers who had returned after the war and how they had coped. Harry would protest, but I was never a solider, Hermione, I’ve never been in battles, I’ve never learned how to kill. (Does she listen? Of course not—she is immovable and persistent as she has always been.) Inebriated, she would be less prone to lecture him and tended to let out small cries of distress instead. He wondered what was worse. He would refuse to acknowledge it. She would run a finger over his arm and brushed under his wrist but he would not meet her eyes. He would not answer to her unspoken question and sat sullenly until the moment would pass, until she would hiccup and pour herself another glass. Ginny would look at her a little perplexed, not knowing the sudden source of Hermione’s bout of melancholic gestures. Hermione? she would perhaps question, amused and worried (and jealous? Harry would like to know the state of Ginny Weasley’s mind on most days concerning his state of availability), Are you okay? You’ve had a little too much to drink, I think.

Fine, I’m fine. Hermione would dismiss. Her eyes would then search his. His cue would be to stare at the fireplace. Harry, are you?

I am, he would say, short and sharp. Ron did not intrude in their conversations during these times, and Harry dearly wished he would. Does Ron know? Did Hermione tell him? He wished Ron would burst out like fire, as he once had. Maybe then Harry could scream too. These were the days before Malfoy, mind. Harry did not have anyone to goad, and so he sat, day after day, feeling like the sulky child Hermione treated him as. Blessed are the days of Malfoy and his werewolf state; at least then he could bring himself to be the mature one and Malfoy the petulant, moronic child. If only.

 

Hermione was the one who found him in the bathroom, knife in one hand, a wrist stretched out, ready to be sliced and open (he wasn’t really, he would later say and no one would ever believe). It was instinctive, he tried to explain, there was the blade and here was his hand. Years ago, a man had yanked out his hand and forcibly took blood away from it and resurrected his worst nightmare. There was still a little thin white scar running across his skin to remember those days long gone. Sometimes he touched it and remembered. He placed the blade upon that white line, just like all those other times, and thought nothing of it. He wouldn’t do anything. Just. The blade was cold and thin above his skin, and if he only loosened his grip a little, the silver would sink down in his flesh. A wand would only slice his hand clean. What an impersonal touch that would be. He would do it properly, like a Muggle would (he had dug the grave of an elf after all, said he would do it properly and he would grieve properly; he had relished in the pain back then too, he had felt alive and burning in those hours of sadness, relished the non-magical ways that made his body ache). My head was white, he said, repeatedly, when Hermione found him later. She screamed and yanked the knife out of his hands. I wasn’t thinking Hermione; I wasn’t trying to do anything.

She stared at him, and he felt very childish and small in front of her, and when he felt petulant he had often said terrible words he did not mean, and this time it was no different. When he could not bear the silence any longer, he said, in a louder voice, Look, Hermione, sometimes I want to feel something and I can’t, and this pain would be as good as any, maybe this would help me feel stuff, okay? Don't you sometimes wish that? You’ve felt the Cruciatus before, you tell me, doesn’t that sometimes come up in your dreams? I dream of someone slashing me to pieces, I think that’d be better than this…thing I have, on most days. He waved a hand, vaguely.

And in that room, there was silence, after the clatter of the knife on the floor, only deadened stillness, until Hermione whispered out, No. No, I don’t feel that way, Harry. She said it in such a cold voice that Harry blinked, wondered what was wrong. We all deal with things differently, and I have nightmares too, but I don’t decide to slice off my skin the moment life crashes down around you. I’m not trying to kill myself.

I didn't slice off anything, Harry tried again, hotly, (I was not trying to kill myself, what a stupid thought, Hermione, I have Teddy to take care of) but Hermione was all ice and fire, her voice dripping with something dark and unfathomable,

No, Harry, I know what you mean. You can’t feel anything, you don’t want to live but you’re not quite sure how you want to die, so you have nightmares about the war and stay in his ratty old house reliving old memories. I know what you’re trying to say and I’ve been awfully patient, and so has Ron, now that I think about it, but you don’t know that, do you? You just want to live onwards the war. The War! Hermione suddenly screamed, and Harry jumped a little. He looked at her, startled. I’m so tired of talking about the war, Harry! Every time I come here, you’re moping and talking about the past, and I’m trying, Harry, I really am, but I want us to move on. I want to live; I want a better world for us. Don’t you want that? Hermione pleaded and beseeched, and while she spoke her voice cracked. Harry, I want you to live. I want you to think of the future. _I_ want a future with you in it. I know that’s too much to ask of you now; but that doesn’t mean I want you to just wallow up and think about death. You’re living, Harry. Aren’t you?

Harry stared at the knife lying on the floor and thought of Hermione in Malfoy Manor. Filthy Mudblood, Bellatrix called her once. Called her quite a few other things too, while she was at it. _Crucio_ ed with intent and malice, Bellatrix’s bloodied wand. Hermione’s sharp screams and how she had begged for mercy. How she did not relent, even with her begging and sobbing. Would Hermione go mad? he often thought after the war. Hermione never talked of those times. She hardly talked about the war, and she dared accused him of silence. He thought of how he had handled the _Crucio_ s inflicted upon him. The sharp needles that traveled across the body, the electrifying shock that made him wish for a merciful death. How during that short time, he would have chosen the painless death upon him than the agony of pain. How pain had made him feel alive.

I don’t know, he finally said. He felt tired. Am I? I was never strong like you, Hermione. It’s not the same as for me as it is for you.

What did Hermione say to this? The conversations stop there. Hermione did not ask him to promise him anything he could not keep. After everything, Harry would often wonder, why Hermione did not simply give up on him. Why she had never said with the same venom, I am so bloody tired of this, you and your silent ghosts. Please rot alone, please go ahead and die on everyone’s behalf. I am done. He wondered why Hermione slammed many doors behind her only to come back with Ron in tow. He would look at anywhere but their faces, and wonder alone.

 

Those are the days. He was waiting for something to happen, and he did not give a damn about the future. He was waiting to die, in a burst of flame, in a blast of fire. He waited for an explosion.

.

.

.

He hears the story of his sudden fainting and sleeping state in fragments. Ron’s version: It was Malfoy, has Malfoy’s fingerprints all over it, he found you lying in the hallway, at least he said he did, he also said some stupid shit, saying that he did loads of tracking spells to find what was wrong with you, thought you did it to yourself, but who knows, right, maybe he cast those to hide what he was really doing, Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy (“Oh, shut up, Ron,” Hermione finally says, and Ron obeys reluctantly, mouthing _Malfoy_ one last time).

At first Hermione gives him a dubious look, as if she thinks he purposefully poisoned himself, but something in Harry’s face must have waved that suspicion away, because soon enough she dismisses Ron’s attempts at storytelling and says crossly, “Ron, start from the beginning, you’re not making any sense, no wonder your reporting skills are so horrid.” She shifts in her seat and ignores Ron’s insulted face.

“Harry,” Hermione says carefully. She is restraining herself, but her frightful eyes betray her, “You’ve been in a coma. We’ve been so, _so_ worried about you. We thought—”

“We thought Malfoy cursed you,” Ron cuts in (again), and this time he does not bother to hide his agitation, his freckled face pale and wan, showing weeks of sleepless shifts, “And don’t try—Harry, don’t try to tell us otherwise. Mate, you’ve been fine just the other day, last time we’ve come to see you,” aside from your bouts of depression and apathy that no one can seem to work out of you for the past ten years, he does not bother to say, “and then we had an owl from St. Mungo’s saying that they took you in. Malfoy’s in Azkaban, he’s been held custody and there was a short trial, it must’ve been clear even to the Aurors.”

He sucks in a sharp breath; he tries to contain his amusement at the way his friends are worrying. It is easy to do so, once he imagines Malfoy’s current predicament.

“And you thought that, what? Malfoy cursed me? He’s not allowed to use offensive magic in the house, you know that. His wand is tracked by the Ministry.” Which was a very poor argument, since that had never stopped Malfoy from ransacking his poor teacups in the kitchen when he was feeling particularly nasty. Perhaps Malfoy just threw them against the wall like a common Muggle.

“Well, he’s a werewolf now,” Ron says, and shakes his head furiously just as Harry is about to open his mouth to defend the race of werewolves and their tame nature, “And no, Harry, let Remus rest on his grave at peace, but Malfoy is not Remus. He wants to do you harm, and you’ve just been too thick to know it.”

“I live with him for most of the week,” Harry points out, trying to make his voice sound furious, but he only ends up hacking up a cough. Hermione passes him a cup of water and he gulps it down. “I think I would know if he was harboring murderous plans towards me.”

“Well, you’re not the best judge of that, you know—some days I think you actually want the git to murder you in your sleep—ow, Hermione!”

“ _What_ Ronald means is,” Hermione says forcefully, with another shove at Ron (“Can you stop with that Ronald crap,” Ron mutters), “You don’t take care much of yourself, Harry, and Malfoy—we think that he might have been lying low and just waiting…when to strike.”

Harry lets the words sink in the room, hoping that they would realize themselves the sheer ridiculousness of their theory. When they do not bother to volunteer the absurdity of the statement, he talks aloud to no one in particular, “Is it strange that I’m the only one who believes Malfoy is innocent?”

“Yes!” Hermione all but snaps, and Harry turns to look at her, surprised at her outburst. “I—oh, Harry, you—you don’t know what we’ve been going through, we thought you just died, we thought you wouldn’t ever wake up, the Healers tested for any residue magic day and night but couldn’t find anything wrong with you! What were we supposed to think? We’ve survived the war, and when everything is just getting back together, we have you dropping dead on us—” And Hermione does not go on, she covers her faces with both her hands and begins to sob loudly.

Ron and Harry both exchange a bewildered look.

“I—er, Hermione,” Harry says, gently and slowly, “It’s not as bad as it is, is it? I mean, look, I woke up. It’s fine, I feel fine. Don’t I look fine?” He throws a desperate look at Ron, _come on, help me out here_ , and even though Ron had also been sullen with his own suspicions and worries, he quickly gets the message and nods a little too enthusiastically.

“Loads better,” he says loudly, “All he needed to do was wake up, Hermione, look—”

“I don’t need half-hearted attempts at consolation from the both of you,” Hermione snaps from behind her hand, and both of them shut their mouths at that, “I know Harry’s alright, it’s just—if Malfoy didn’t do it, then who did? And you better have a very good answer for this, too,” she adds, viciously, lowering her hands to glare at Harry with her red-rimmed eyes, “Because people just don’t collapse and fail to breathe for weeks at end! Did I tell you that? You weren’t breathing, Harry, you were as good as dead! That’s not just because of your exhaustion or depression!”

Harry stares at her. Well, he imagines saying, I kept seeing Tom Riddle in my dreams. Not that I told you; not that I told anyone. Death visits me quite a lot too, and I’ve been trying to persuade him to let me go back in time to change things a bit. Surprise, surprise, after needling and mocking me, he gave in. I went and became a prodigy. Sorry to beat you in Charms, too, wasn’t my idea. But then Riddle comes and tells me that I didn’t actually kill the actual Horcrux inside me all those years ago, so that dampened things a bit. I mean, Voldemort was a wily old bastard, color me surprised. Or maybe you should just shove me in the mental ward at St. Mungo’s, that’ll be best for us all. I’m seeing things as I want them to be, aren’t I. I went back in time. Maybe it was all in my head.

“Maybe I should talk to Malfoy,” he says slowly.

“Did you just hear anything that we’ve just said?” Now Ron looks furious. “We think he’s the one who did it and you—what? Just want to pop in to Azkaban and have a nice little chat?”

“And some tea,” Harry says, but the joke is lost on both of them, and Hermione gives out a large gasp. She is hiding another bout of sobbing, for which Harry is grateful.

“Wait,” he says, holding up one hand. It is a very bony, white hand; he has not been eating, he realizes, staring at his own shriveled and weak hand, somewhat fascinated. Ron presses his lips and Hermione fiddles with his hands. “I mean—okay, let’s get some things straight. I am sorry I caused you to worry. I was not about to die. Malfoy was not attempting to murder me—”

“We don’t know that—” Ron starts loudly, but Harry cuts him quick.

“I do,” Harry says, “Because Malfoy is not…well, he’s a lot of things, but he’s not a murderer. He had a chance, once, you know. To do us in, a long time ago.” He raises his eyebrows and dares them to mention the Manor. Neither does. “And now he’s in custody, he’s all for self-interest and keeping his head low. I’ve seen him, yeah? He doesn’t provoke fights—I’ve told you this,” he says exasperatedly, when both give him doubtful looks. “He’s changed.”

“No, I guess the tea stains on your wallpapers make Kreacher an irresponsible house elf,” Ron says.

“I never said he was all daisies and roses, I just—” Harry stops. His eyes burn. He rubs his temples with his fingers and tries again. “He wouldn’t kill me.”

Nobody speaks. Harry wills them to contradict him. He will scream at them; his nerves are frayed so. His head titters. A voice rebukes him, _Malfoy is a spoiled rotten child, he doesn’t care if you live or die, one cannot trust a Malfoy, Harry, mayhap he wants you to—_

Hermione, finally, says wearily, “I know, Harry. He wouldn’t. It was just…easier, I think. For us. It would have been such a simple story if it came to that.” Harry lifts up his head and meets Hermione’s watery eyes. She attempts a smile for him. “But I suppose nothing’s simple with you,” she says shakily. She does not mention blame and justice, she does not voice out righteousness and retribution. She does not say, Malfoy was always a sore point for you, or she does not offer, Harry, when have you been standing up for Malfoy of all people? She does not need to.

He grins at her, tired. “No,” he says, “It’s about time you figured that out.”

Ron looks at them, resignation on his face. “So,” he ventures out, his tone slow and deliberate, “Is no one going to stop Harry from waltzing into Azkaban?”

They all share a rueful smile.

“Well,” Harry says, his voice lighter, “Not waltz in. I’ll still have to act the bedridden patient, won’t I?”

“You won’t act it, you _are_ a bedridden patient,” Hermione is quick to say, and it is as if her outburst was not there at all, as if Ron did not spend a good amount of time defacing Malfoy’s name, as if Harry was not about to have yet another breakdown. Fragile peace for the moment. “We’re going to wait until you’re able to walk, and then you’ll petition the Ministry for a visit, Malfoy is heavily supervised for the moment—”

“I’ll talk to Shacklebolt,” Harry says. As if that would settle any matters. But he’s Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Conqueror of the Dark Lord, and all the other ridiculous titles that comes with his name (The Master of Death, a high voice hisses at him). From the way Ron rolls his eyes, Harry is sure that they’ve returned to normal.

“Get some sleep, the both of you,” Harry says, “And we’ll talk. Tomorrow. I—” He swallows. “Thanks. For—you know.”

“For trying to warn you off pretentious gits and failing to save you as you lay dying?” Ron asks dryly. He pats Harry’s covered knee. “You’re welcome.”

“Ron!”

He laughs.

.

.

.

The guards in Azkaban are wary of him. They are toughened, old wizards who have seen insanity and cruelty inside these very walls. Their rugged faces show their apathetic nature. No screams of mercy nor cackling curses would scare them away. Harry waits patiently in the grey room. It reminds him of his dreams, where Riddle resides (shall I play mother?) and awaits him. In this room, there is a bare table and two chairs and only one door to allow them entry and exit. He sits in one chair and a guard stands over the entryway. Do you think I’ll bolt out of here? Harry does not speak. The guard is not a conversationalist as they both wait. The guards had not shown any sign of surprise at Harry Potter in the steps of the wizarding world’s most notorious prison, but they are reluctant to bring Malfoy to him. Protective of your prisoners, are you, Harry wants to jest. The quip dies on his lips as the clock ticks.

The door creaks open.

The guard comes in. No Malfoy.

Due to the circumstances we must escort you to his cell, he is a top rated security threat, the guard says.

Harry blinks. He stands up and realizes his face is hot. His blood boils.

You haven’t even given him a trial properly, Harry wants to say back. Did he have his say? Did you show mercy as he screamed? His magic crackles around him. I will kill those Aurors. He does not even begin to think.

The guard that had stood by him takes a step forward. These are only security measures, Mr. Potter, he says, soothingly. He talks to Harry like he is taming a wild, unpredictable beast. Strangely, it works. Come, he is alone in his cell. We will not disturb you and grant privacy.

We will not—the other guard begins to say, but Harry cuts him off gracefully.

Thank you, I would very much appreciate that, he says and gives both of them a very sharp smile. His voice is cold, he makes it very polite and proper. The prison holds Dementors and raging Death Eaters and petty criminals. Nothing would have fazed these men, Harry had supposed. And yet they flinch at his look.  

Cowards, a voice whispers. Harry is inclined to agree.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Azkaban is a rotting place. Up the stairs they go, and to a cell they stop. Harry stands, hiding his unease and settle on being dumbfounded.

“Malfoy,” he says.

From behind the bars, Malfoy looks quite mad, with his ragged robes and his pale face. The cell holds a tin bucket and a hard, wooden bed. There is a small window. Only a pallor of grey can be see in that little opening. Could Malfoy look up at the skies overhead? He has not been eating, Harry notes. On the floor is an overturned plate. Fatigue clouds his grey eyes. He is exactly as how Harry had dreamt of him in Riddle’s grey room, with his stony glare and his twitchy hands. A bar divides them as Dementors glide past him. (Best not to provoke them, Mr. Potter, one of the guards say, when they see him reach out for his wand, they will linger at you, you are new prey for them. Harry does not tell him, well, I did manage to banish a hundred of those foul creatures in my third year and at this point I would happily see them all be vanquished. He gives a terse nod in response.) He looks around the stoned walls and the coldness that seeps through and permeates everything. Outside, the wind should howl and the waves should crash against the rocky cliffs, but there is only an eerie silence inside these walls. The silence and the cold is enough to drive a man to scream. And indeed, there is a clatter of noise that echoes around the corridors if one listens carefully. Around them there is a shrill wail and a shout. Shut up, someone shrieks. There is a thud. An echo, and again, that stillness. A maniac laughter. It reminds him of ghosts.

Malfoy does not open his mouth that would have Harry worrying for his sanity. Malfoy does not simply do anything in the first few minutes they see each other; merely stands before him, silent and contemplating, until he shakes out of his thoughts and throws out a word that gives out a semblance of normalcy. He wonders if that is intentional. Malfoy’s stare unnerves him.

“Potter,” Malfoy all but spits, his watery eyes narrowing. He does not look surprised to see him. Malfoy’s eyes flit around his body, measuring him from head to toe. Malfoy is studying him—looking for what? Harry knows better than to ask. He does not look back at the guards. He is not nervous, of course not. This is only Malfoy.

Should we—one of the guards say, and Harry nods.

Please leave us to it, Harry speaks, his eyes still fixed on Malfoy. Malfoy sneers when the guard does his bidding and opens the cell door. 

“Got the guards under your thumb already, have you?” he says. His voice is a rasp; Malfoy is a mess all over. Harry draws in a breath.

“I’m going to come in, Malfoy,” he says slowly. Please, Mr. Potter, the guard says once more, enter at your own risk.

“Yes, please, Potter, _do_ come in,” Malfoy says, promising great pain if he follows through. That’s not a threat, Malfoy, and besides, I’m here to help you, could we at least pretend to have a united front here? Harry wonders about the nature of Draco Malfoy and his inability to kill him. “After all the trouble you took to come here. Pity I can’t offer you anything.”

Watch you mouth, Malfoy, the guard says shortly. Or you’ll end up in the same state as your parents. (Yes, Harry wonders, just where are Malfoy’s parents? Weren’t they sharing a cell with his son? Did they have a happy union or did Lucius Malfoy threaten to disown his only heir who became a werewolf? The screams around him do not make him think of Narcissa Malfoy. The Malfoys should be in the uppermost tower with his son, they are coveted and highly influential political prisoners, after all.) Impersonal and cold, there is no malice directed at the other man. Malfoy is just another prisoner to rot inside these walls and a body to drag out when the time comes.

Malfoy laughs. A cold, high laughter—and there comes the madness—is such laughter contagious when one goes mad? Harry swallows down his questions and smoothens down his face.

He steps inside.

It’s fine, he says. Please leave us. I’ll call when there’s danger.

“You’re always in danger with me, Potty, in case you haven’t noticed,” Malfoy says.

The guard looks uncertain. Maybe I could tie him—

No, Harry says. He is tried of overriding stupid decisions. I can handle him. Malfoy snorts. That’s very undignified, Malfoy, Harry does not bother to say. He nods at the guard again. The guard nods back, a little stiff. They have a tentative understanding. The guards will retreat and Harry will not wield his magic around like a child. His magic growls inside him, or is that just his mind?

The cell door closes. They are alone.

“So,” Harry says. Malfoy cuts out his small talk with a snarl. He warns him before Harry even can try.

“It’s almost the full moon, Potter,” Malfoy says softly, “Best not to provoke me.”

But I don’t know how to talk to you otherwise. Harry bites down his quip and turns up his hands, a peaceful gesture that is done half-heartedly. He takes a few steps forth and sits gingerly on the rumpled bed. He smiles because it would prevent him from speaking inane banalities. _Nice place you’ve got here, did you miss me, did I meet you in a dream or was that all just me and my loony mind?_ Malfoy bares his teeth at him. His eyes are wild and fixated. He wants to squirm under the gaze but holds himself.

_Well then, what should I do, offer you tea and hope you get the meaning behind my words?_

Aloud he says, “Were you worried about me? I’d be very touched, you know. If you had.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes at him. That’s not a very nice look on you, Malfoy. Harry swallows his words. But what to say to a man who had been wrongly imprisoned? His head hurts. An eleven-year-old Malfoy overlaps with the haggled prisoner standing in front of him. I thought the war was over, and here you are for my failure to juggle between time and space.

( _The war is never over, Harry_ , Shacklebolt’s voice reprimands him.)

“You seem to be alive enough,” Malfoy says. His voice is hoarse. An older Malfoy, a more dangerous one. Yes, Harry does miss the Malfoy who was not mature in his magic enough to throw fatal hexes at him.

Harry says tiredly, “Well, so do you. Even though you’re here.” You’re alive, at least. You don’t seem to be barking mad yet. Malfoy, talk to me about something substantial so that I can make sense of this strangeness and injustice. Talk to me about your woes or your nightmares, so I can know what I dreamt of was real.

Malfoy’s eyes glint. “Yes,” he says, “But it’s not so bad. I can’t very much complain. I have a cell all to myself.” His pale lips twist.

“I’m glad you’re making the most of it,” Harry says carefully. He rubs a hand over his face. His hands are still shaky. From fatigue or the cold or just plain nervousness, he is not really sure. He wonders if Malfoy distrusts him again (not that he had ever trusted in Harry; all they had once were a couple of drinking sessions and broken teacups, and a handful encounters of wand waving and veiled threats to provoke anger) and Harry would have to persuade Malfoy of his dubious innocence (Malfoy, I was in a coma because I traveled back in time and saw you with Riddle, tell me, how is he, quite the annoying little bugger, isn’t he). “Look, Malfoy, I _am_ talking to Shacklebolt. It’s not like I’ve been idle and wasting away while you’re here rotting up here. So you can cut…” Harry waves a hand at him vaguely. Cut out that crap, let me talk about you as a child, very sniping and bratty you were. Or no, let’s not, why don’t we talk about Riddle, maybe he had something to do with all of this. “You can try to act civil,” he says instead. “Come over here and sit down, Malfoy, you’re making me want to take out my wand.”

Malfoy sneers, but obliges him (humors him?) halfway as he walks over to the bed. He doesn’t sit, though, and Harry has to crane his head a little to see Malfoy’s towering figure. And then—he does not know what to make of the next gesture. A pale hand comes up; reaches out to touch his forehead, ever so gently. The gesture is sudden and unexpected enough for Harry to stand still as Malfoy brushes a finger through the thin scar on his head. The chill of those fingers do not linger.

“You weren’t breathing,” Malfoy says, but it’s not the cajoling tone that Hermione had used in the hospital. It is flat, devoid of worry and fear that he would fall apart one day and die. It is detached and curious. Wondering. Harry finds this easier to handle than the smothering prayers. It keeps him on guard. (Malfoy does not care for me and so one day he may kill me.) He brings back his smile.

“Well,” he says, “Happens quite a lot to me, it seems.”

Malfoy’s lips seem to twitch, but the moment is gone, and the face is once again a mask.

“It would be a pity if you died,” Malfoy says, and Harry once again wonders about the authenticity of his visions. The Malfoy he had seen had gone wild and unhinged, he had screamed in pure agony—and here is a Malfoy that Harry had known and did not quite know, a Malfoy who is sharp and bitter and wary. Harry keeps his smile firmly in place even if Malfoy is not willing to keep up the façade.

“Why, because there’d be no one to champion your many virtues and defend your innocence?” Harry jibes.

Malfoy glares down at him. “You say that so easily,” he says coldly, “As if I have a choice. I’m in Azkaban right now, Potter, and both my parents had been mad in here somewhere (Malfoy pauses abruptly at this, his teeth clenched)—and I only have you as my savior to rally for my cause. It’s not very rosy from my side of the story.”

“And you’re a werewolf,” Harry says. He can’t help himself. Malfoy is choosing his words carefully and holding back, and Harry finds that tedious. They have things to say to each other— _he_ has things to say to Malfoy—so perhaps they could move past their inane insulting ritual and begin to exchange notes about their dreams and hopefully prove all was not futile.

“Yes,” Malfoy says. And smiles. His teeth are sharper than the last time Harry had seen him. The transformations are subtle before the full moon. A change of teeth, a rancid smell, a predator’s eyes. “They didn’t give me a Wolfsbane Potion, you see. I don’t know when I’ll turn.” His voice is conversational. Harry has a bad feeling about this but his smile does not easily relent.

“I’ll make this visit quick then,” Harry says. He wets his lips and Malfoy follows the sudden movement with his eyes. They gleam hungrily. He is reminded of Riddle; Harry is suddenly doubtful of his initial assessment of Malfoy being sane. “How long have you been in Azkaban?”

“The same time you've been wheeled off to St. Mungo’s. Really, Potter, you’d make a very poor Auror with your lackluster skills for questioning.”

Harry ignores him. “And Hermione says there was a short trial—”

“No,” Malfoy cuts in, cold and biting, “No trial. Just an indictment of my many crimes. They’ve been waiting for it. Charming, isn’t it? They had my statement ready to be signed even before I set foot in that damned Ministry.”

But Malfoy’s voice lacks a certain anger; it sounds amused, and his casual manner makes Harry sit stiff. Malfoy is talking without any signs of wrath, his face a constant smirk, watching Harry and letting his own voice flow without much thought. It is Harry’s burden to hold himself upright, to watch signs of an ambush. Malfoy might turn the tables on him any moment now, snarl at him and claw him; his relaxing stance, all of this must be an act to throw him off.

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “I don’t know how long you’ll have to stay here for—I’ve talked to Shacklebolt, and told him about my condition, and he’s fair, if anything else.”

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy says, “And what _was_ your condition? Do you like to drop dead for no reason other than to give everyone a scare and have renounced Death Eaters convicted? Awfully conceited, even for you, isn’t it?”

And everything is an act, to make him rile up, to make him say something that would give Malfoy a bone to chew on—but there is something else, Harry thinks, watching Malfoy watch him. The words are thrown to insult him and make Harry angry, but Malfoy should know better now. Harry had long ceased to be angry at Malfoy’s insults, day after day in that gloomy house where they had been holed up, and Malfoy isn’t stupid, he knows Harry’s nightmares and apathy and drive for pain—and so, what was the point of his childish insults? There was something more. Harry decides to throw out a thoughtless remark of his own that would condemn his death.

“Yeah, Malfoy, that was exactly it, pity I didn’t stay dead, but I have a track record for doing that, you see,” Harry says, with the same airy tone Malfoy had adopted.

There must have been something in Harry’s voice that has Malfoy reeling. At once, Malfoy’s face changes. His lips drop the smirk and his eyes harden. His voice manages to be light and deathly all at once. “So you did it to yourself. You tried to die.”

Harry blinks. Well, if you consider Death’s bargain to be something I did on my own, I suppose. If you accept the premise that Tom Riddle exists inside my mind, why not. If I thought to go back in time and decided to stay and prevent a war from happening. If I erased my present state to redo history over again. If I did not exist in the first place. Or perhaps I am wondering what you would respond to this. Malfoy’s eyes do not blink as he watched him, and around them, there is only the deafening silence.

He says, “Yes.”

A second is all Malfoy needs, for him to crouch down and grasp Harry’s arms to haul him up. Harry draws in a sharp breath in surprise, and chokes back on the rush of cold air inside his lungs, as Malfoy drags him to his feet and pushes him back. He stumbles on his steps and Malfoy is upon him, his eyes wide and feral, dark and unhinged (ah, Harry thinks, here is the madness, here comes the rage) but Malfoy does not attack him as Harry expects him to. He backs up, closer to the wall than he wants to be, and Malfoy’s fingers press down on his shoulders, thin and bony, and Harry is waiting for the kill that never comes. He does not have time to say, what have I done to offend you, can’t I make jokes about my own death, you don’t care, do you? Or do you just want to finish me off here, where no one would be surprised at the turn of events and you could just rot here until they find your bones? Harry tries to open his mouth to say something short and cutting, but Malfoy is faster. Speed and height are what Malfoy has, and Harry blinks before he is consumed by an intake of something hot.

Malfoy’s kiss is not gentle. It is not even, strictly, a kiss. It is a transfer of air, he thinks, as he tries to inhale and breathes in a foul stink of Malfoy’s mouth, tasting of dampness and musk. He is reminded of the Muggle way to revive someone who has drowned. Breathe in, and out. Pump down that chest. Save him. Malfoy breathes inside his mouth and pushes back again, as if Malfoy is forcing warm air into his lungs, as if Harry is incapable of breathing by himself. The excess of air makes him quite light in the head, and he tries to lift up his arms to shove Malfoy away, but Malfoy catches both of his wrists before he can, and pin them up against the wall. He lets his feet backtrack the last steps of the wall and his back brushes against the damp stone. He groans. Malfoy leans back a little, for him to catch his breath, and Harry tries to drink in the cold air around them. He tries to speak, his voice hoarse,

“I—Malfoy this is a very bad idea, you—” What are you doing, you idiot. He is supposed to say that, say it with outrageous horror, not offer out a feeble protest.

“Are you going to scream, Potter?” Malfoy leans closer and whispers harshly against his ear, each of his words a hot steam of breath. Harry stiffens and Malfoy uses that to his advantage, pressing him even further up the cold walls, digging his fingernails into Harry’s wrists. The chill seeps into his skin. “I won’t stop you, you know—there are guards everywhere in this bloody place, and not just the Dementors…but you’re quite afraid of them yourself, aren’t you, Potter?” Malfoy chuckles, and it all sounds quite mad, he sounds quite gone, and so Harry does not try to aggravate the situation any further and stay completely still and limp. He does not struggle. Malfoy is a wild beast anyhow, it wouldn’t hurt to play dead for awhile, would it? He was awfully good at that—playing dead, coming back alive, trying to goad his enemies into fits of murderous rage, wasn’t he?

Malfoy buries his face into the crook of Harry’s neck and inhales and exhales, nosing his way and feeling for— _well, what is he feeling for?_ Harry thinks, stiff and awkward and warm from Malfoy’s body, _if he could just bloody move on to what he wants and bite me and rip me apart_ —and his pulse beats frantically, he hears the roaring of his blood. From fear or excitement, he does not quite know. Malfoy seems to sniff something with his bloody, fantastically, animalistic nose and licks a line down Harry’s neck with a caution that he should not even be capable of showing. For all his cold, murderous words, he is being a careful wolf, the way he is licking with tentative strokes. And then he does it once more.

He fails at staying dead and limp. He lets his head fall back against the stone wall and groans.

“Ow—fuck, _fuck_.”

“I know what you want me to do Potter,” Malfoy whispers, nibbling at his throat so gently that it would not leave any bites, and Harry arches up his neck involuntarily. “You want me to tear you apart and bite you. It’s not very smart, trying to pick a fight with a werewolf. Just be glad that I can rein it in. You’re so easy to read, sometimes, no wonder the Dark Lord found it so easy to penetrate your mind walls.”

He tries shaking his head, no, it was because we were sharing souls and blood and wand cores—and bloody hell, that sounds almost fated and—“Could you not,” Harry manages to rasp, “Not try to talk about your Dark Lord while you’re manhandling me?”

“Why, does it dampen the mood?” Malfoy sneers, and a succession of small kisses follow his remark. He licks his pulse and bites down on his bones and nibbles his skin. Harry pushes down back a gasp, he tries to free his hands from Malfoy’s grip, but Malfoy is even more determined to keep him pinned, and the rough stone walls scratch and mark roughly under his skin. He hisses.

Malfoy’s breath is sour and hot. His lips pepper Harry’s jawline, his cheek and in the corners of the mouth, and when Harry tilts his head, unconsciously, Malfoy’s lips cover his own and Harry can taste him—he is stale and sour and very repulsive, but his tongue is also warm—it devours him—and Harry opens his mouth unconsciously. Malfoy’s hands come up to grab his hair and Harry is forced to jerk his head back and he cannot move, cannot even think—

“Malfoy,” he tries to say, but what comes out is a low murmur that does not sound like a name. It is primitive, a soothing hum, a soft groan. Sounds that do not make words. Tell me, why are we doing this? One moment I’m sitting down in your bed and talking about our grim circumstances and the next you have me here wanting, and you look desperate and crazed. Malfoy, such looks were never good for anyone. He closes his eyes and lets his own hands rise to clutch Malfoy’s thin robes. Heat presses onto him. He is driven further against the wall. Malfoy’s grip on his hair is brutal and painful, and his kisses are sloppy and wet at best, and yet. And yet.

“I thought you were dead, Potter,” Malfoy hisses, when he finally tears himself off to breathe, and Harry looks into deranged eyes, and there is no fear, or at least, there is not the fear Harry had expected. I am your only lifeline, I am your only defender in this cruel, sad world…Harry had expected Malfoy to seek reassurance that Harry was alive and sane enough to vouch for him again in court when the time comes. _I believe in Draco Malfoy_ , Harry had once spoke and the audience had listened. Malfoy had walked free out due to the reputation of the wizarding hero and Harry thinks Malfoy had never quite forgiven him for that mercy. He has not forgiven Harry for sheltering him when he turned into a werewolf as well, but they had not yet crossed that line yet and Malfoy was smart enough to know that a dead Harry Potter was worse than a Harry Potter who came to rescue his sorry lost causes. Malfoy is nothing but self-serving, Harry has learned. But Malfoy seeks something inside him, and his grey eyes dart around his face, trying to grasp at something, and Harry lets him, trying to stay still, to control his breathing and to see…

“I thought you gone,” Malfoy says again, and no, it doesn’t sound like anything Hermione or Ron would have said to him, it sounds worse. The distant and cold face breaks. There is something desperate lurking there. The voice is broken and jagged, furious and spiteful. “I’m not going to let you die, Potter. For _fuck’s_ sake.”

Harry stares at him. I wonder why, he does not bother to say.

 

Later, Harry will come out of Azkaban. It would be a clear day in London and for some inexplicable reason, he would go to the Ministry and walk over to the Department of Records, where they keep the records of the wizards that have been borne and perished, and he would meet a nice, affable young witch who would help him find what he is looking for, sneaking looks at him as he rifles through the parchment lain out in front of him, searching until he finds what he already knows.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, dead in Azkaban, a week before Malfoy had arrived.

That would have been their cell, Harry thinks. (Malfoy’s voice, _But it’s not so bad. I can’t very much complain. I have a cell all to myself,_ his eyes hard, and that was when Harry had known, instinctively, what Malfoy’s cell had once contained.) His hands slacken and for a long time he can only stare at their names. One had vigilantly fought against him and what he stood for, the other had saved him and helped him to achieve what he wanted, for less noble reasons of her own. He did not miss them, certainly not, but it was a strange feeling. He feels empty. After all these years, the dead still come to haunt him. They got what they deserved, some would have said, spitefully and gleefully, they got what was coming to them. Harry had once thought that, long ago, when his rage was easy to kindle and when he believed that the world was changing around him for the better. Now he only feels sad and tired, thinking, what a shame and a waste. It is pitiful, the way they had gone. What would Malfoy think. And the thought it not a comforting one; Harry is all that Malfoy had left of the world right now, sole savior and hero to wrench the boy out of from the coldness that is the North Sea. He does not wish to be burdened with such a title.

He brings his hand to his lips. Rubs them. His mouth still tastes of the fear that Malfoy had given him, the harsh succession of kisses that burned him.

 

But this is the later, when Harry is safe and warm in a city far away from the maniacal prisoners and a mad Malfoy. There is no North Sea to entrap him and the cold to haunt him. But here; this is now. Harry is pressed up against the wall and Malfoy is trapping him and beseeching him about things that Harry had never been able to give to anyone, much less someone inconsequential as Malfoy, and Harry looks into those eyes and they ask him something Harry is tired of refusing. Malfoy is relieved that he is safe, and he is disgusted to feel this sentiment. He is repulsed because he does not quite understand why. Harry is confused because Malfoy, of all people, should not feel such things. Whatever will happen to their great and epic animosity?

 (But later, in the warm, dry walls inside the Ministry, he will find what he knows and he will understand a little better. He will be able to forgive Malfoy for his burst of emotions, for there is only Harry left now in his desolate and unforgiving world, and there is no one to turn to anymore.)

“It’s not up to you to decide whether I die, Malfoy,” he says. His voice sounds detached. “But I’ll try my best not to. Until I get you out of here.”

That is a promise sworn out of enmity and nothing more, he would like to believe. Malfoy is not in his right mind, and Harry can forgive him for his worry. The wetness cools off. His neck feels the chill.

Malfoy does not break away, and those eyes are still mesmerizing. Harry is the first to look elsewhere and does not even begin to say the many things he had wanted to say. They are silent and Harry badly wants to break this unexplained and unnecessary tension between them, he is not interested in talking about life and death and the inevitability of everything. He thinks, let go, Malfoy, and his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Malfoy finally steps back, slow and deliberate. Malfoy stares at Harry looking at the empty wall.

In the end, he only manages out a sentence that should have been nothing of consequence, an inside joke that Harry is not sure Malfoy should have understood.

“I was just remembering in the hospital,” he says slowly (or dreaming, he leaves out). “Our first year. How you knew a lot of stuff that I didn’t even know at that time. You knew wandless when you were eleven.” His vision does not leave the stone wall perimeters as he speaks. “You were quite impressive with your magic.” See, Malfoy, I can compliment you, we could be friends and you don’t have to tear off my neck or lick it, this is all very surreal right now and I am blabbering about my recent events that should really make no sense to you.

And Malfoy should have said something along the lines of What, no, Potter what are you talking about (in this case everything until now would have been a dream) or You never saw me do wandless, Potter, don’t be daft (in this case Harry was a delusional freak who would weave up stories about _what-ifs_ inside his head) or even an incredulous laugh that would have shown Harry was dreaming and Malfoy did not, indeed, know such things. But Malfoy does not comment on his sudden desire to rehash old histories of the schooldays. He does not even laugh.

Malfoy scowls, and he says tersely, “Are you jesting with me? You were the prodigy with your wand Potter, the way you pranced about in our common room with your bloody wand—”

Malfoy stops. Harry jerks his head to Malfoy once more and stares.

Silence.

“ _Our_ common room?” Harry repeats. His voice shakes. “Our?”

“You were in Slytherin, weren’t you?” Malfoy says sharply. His eyes watch him with anew wariness.

“But no,” Harry says, “I…I was in Gryffindor.”

“Yes,” Malfoy says immediately after that. Primly and dismissive, once again his eyes have gone blank and flat. “Yes, of course. That’s what I meant.”

And then, just before Harry could ask him what the fuck that meant, the guards come. Time’s up, Mr. Potter. Malfoy does not see him leave; he immediately turns and walks over to the window and does not see Harry step out of the cell. He does not answer to Harry’s words, Malfoy, I’ll talk to Shacklebolt, this—you’ll be out of here soon. And he wants Malfoy to reply to his endless, ceaseless optimism that he does not quite feel, he wants Malfoy to elaborate about his slip, wants to stop his wild thoughts that ramble on: _so everything had not been a dream then, it actually happened? Where is my Gryffindor history with you, do you know more about our past than I do?_ He wants Malfoy to explain himself, why he thought it would have been a good idea to pin him to the wall like a fucking butterfly and kiss him with horrid breath. But Malfoy does not turn to see him out, does not reply to his desperation. The guards lead him out of the cell, down the stairs and into the cold, roaring sea wind again, his hair whipped by the salty air, and he is left alone to wonder.

.

.

.

In his dream that night, Harry sees himself.

 

Potter, he thinks. He is confused at this conundrum, then is angry at the rage the other boy makes him feel. So I am inside the head of an enemy. But Potter— _Harry,_ he amends, stubbornly—does not seem to hold the same hostility that he is feeling inside his mind. Potter sits in an armchair, is lax and restive. Potter has put down his guard but this does not warm him. For some reason this rankles the mind that he is currently inhabiting. Potter is ignoring him, lost once again in his own world. Potter seems to be fine and content, contrary to what everyone else is saying. Poor bloody Harry Potter. Master Harry is not eating, the elf whispers to him nearly every day. As if gave a damn about what Potter ate. I’m not his nursemaid, elf, he would sneer back. Potter does not sleep. He can hear the nightmares from his room, the screaming and the laughter. I’ve signed up for a mental ward, what leeway they give to war heroes in this brave new world of ours, the mind thinks. Harry wants to protest for his own sanity. He looks down at his hands. They are paler and the fingers are longer than what he is used to seeing. He catches a strand of hair. Blond.

In this fuzzy room with its ghastly tapestries, Draco is carefully watching Potter, and Harry is inside Malfoy’s convoluted head. They’ve become drinking buddies in this scene, how very charming. It is domestic—he had forgotten how boring their days were in that dreadful old house. Pity, he even misses it sometimes. 

It is late at night. He can see it from the way the dying embers flicker feebly inside the fireplace mantle. Potter has been staring at the fire all evening. I thought you would harbor no love for fires, Potter, he swallows unbidden words down. After whatever we’ve been through. I wish you’d put it out. Don’t they give you nightmares—but no, I supposed famous Potter has other worries haunting his own dreams.

He drinks in another gulp.

Hermione came by today, Potter says. Potter is angling for small talk; he is mortified for the both of them.

Potter, we are not friends, we will never be friends (the wolf inside him somewhere growls in agreement, the beast wants something more that he cannot just simply give) please leave aside your sob stories for your Mind Healer.

She saw me cooking, Potter says, unaware or just choosing to ignore his sullen silence, And I was holding a knife. I was chopping up carrots and she just pops in, no respect for privacy, thanks very much, and I thought she’d be happy with me. I’m cooking, I’m being productive, and I’m even making sure Kreacher rests once in a bit, you know? (The elf would have been appalled, he thinks grimly.) And then Hermione, she doesn’t even bother to say, how nice you’re bustling about and doing something nice for a change, how are you feeling, and all that rot, but she just sees me with that knife and goes off the wall. She calls me by my full name and shrieks at me, saying what the hell was I thinking? Potter pauses and laughs. I bet you heard her. She’s so loud when she gets angry. You were in the library at that time, I think. Smart move.

Most of us know better than to wander around the servants’ quarters, Potter, he thinks. And no, I’ll not be drinking with you again, you ramble on so, and I do not wish to know anything about you, I’ll get wrong ideas all over again and I do not wish for my miserable little world to fall apart once more with your openness and cordiality. I’ve had it with your pathetic attempts.

 I tried to cut myself once, did I tell you that? Potter says suddenly, almost shyly, and then he lifts up his sweatshirt and he hides back a grimace. Potter’s wrists are bony and thin under the layers of wool he wears. There is a white, jagged line running alongside his arm.

What did you do, stick a knife inside your wrist and hope that it would finish you off? His thoughts are spiteful. Not even the Killing Curse had that honor, Potter, do grow up.

Potter takes his silence as a sign to go on.

Not very clean, Potter says. Then laughs a little. I did it the Muggle way, seemed a little more real when you do it yourself. I buried your elf that same way too, Malfoy, did you know that? His name was Dobby—he...he meant a lot to me, and I thought that it was the proper way, the right way. Did you ever do such a ridiculous thing like that?

No, the mind thinks. And I didn’t want to hear that, and no, I don’t really fucking care. Shut _up_ , Potter.

But Potter does not shut up, He goes on with his flat voice and his smiling lips, and the contrast is so uncanny that he has to turn his face away to the fire to avoid looking into those cold green eyes.

Hermione found me that time too. Of course she did, she’s annoying and brilliant that way. She asked me what the fuck I was doing. I didn’t know, maybe I wanted to die. What was wrong with that? But I didn’t think—well, not really, no. I didn’t want to to die. But I was so tired of not feeling anything. Do you ever feel that, Malfoy? I wish I could feel half the things Hermione feels on her bad days. I’m sure she has them too; she just never says. But I can’t tell her that—she fought in the same war that I had, and she’s all right. She’s still trying to go on and save the world. What the fuck am I doing? Potter barks out a laugh again that turns into a choke. Fuck, this Firewhiskey’s strong, he gasps.

You’re saving poor old me, aren’t you, with your sorry little life.

The silence is comforting and he does not bother to speak up. It is more entertaining to see Potter lose his marbles.

But that was years ago. It was—those were my “bad days.” Potter makes a weird gesture with his hands, he is not quite sure what they were supposed to mean, and a moment later Potter drops his hand and sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, he says tiredly. I must be fucking off my rocker.

So we _can_ come to an understanding on certain points, how nice. The Floo’s only a few steps away, why don’t you call St. Mungo’s while you’re at it.

An arm reaches out for the bottle and a hand curls around the glass. He gestures to Potter’s empty cup. Another glass? It is said in a mild tone, empty of everything.

Potter starts, then stares at him. It is unnerving. Oh, Potter says. It is light and mocking. So you have been listening to me. Glad to see you didn’t fall asleep in the middle.

Glad to see you’re aware of how your suicidal sprees don’t make fascinating conversation topics, Potter.

He is sorry he says such words as soon as they escape his mouth. He is, but no one would quite believe him and he gave up thoughts of atonement long ago. He is always angry or sorry at Potter these days, dreary days in this wretched place. His is all malice and viper in his words and he relishes in making Potter’s face twitch. Because Potter is right when he says that he does not quite feel anything; he sees Potter’s face at breakfast and Potter is always so distant and quiet, there is nothing in Potter’s words. There is no fire. And he, he is so angry most of the time, about how life had dealt him these crap cards that landed him in Potter’s custody, and he has nightmares about burning fire and cold, pitiless eyes, and he hears cold laughter in his mind…and he does not want to bond with Potter over nightmares of all things. So he returns back to what he knew once upon a time: he insults Potter, from his unruly hair to his atrocious manners, and Potter takes them all in stride. Once Potter would have bared out his teeth and they would have fought, but rarely does Potter get angry. When he does, Potter’s eyes are the first to spark, and the magic around him shudders. He does not know what would rile Potter up, what would merely amuse him. He throws out random insults and this time, Potter is not angry, Potter is amused by his words. Potter’s face does not change, if only because there was nothing to be shown in the first place. Potter’s lips give out a small twitch, as if Potter had expected him to speak in such vile language. Potter always thinks the worst of him, it should not bother him so.

Sorry. It is Potter who apologizes. I’m a right bore, aren’t I?

He sighs. Finish your tale if you must. Granger found you in the kitchen today and—

Oh, right. Right. Er, so she found me, went all berserk about it. I was saying I was cooking, for fuck’s sake, I wouldn’t do shit like that anymore and then she—well, she said the funniest thing. Potter’s lips twist. Not quite a smile or a smirk, but getting there. She said that she’s glad we’re living together. Isn’t that mad? I told her I was getting on with my life, ta, and then she calmed down enough to say that last bit, and then when I asked her what the hell she meant, she said that well, at least I won’t kill myself when I’m around you, just in case you get framed for murdering me. Potter grins at him. Not that I’m putting it past you.

And Potter says that very prettily, almost coyly. He remembers other nights too: when Potter asked him about being a wolf, and his eyes had been so hungry and eager when he posed that question, and his heart had beat wildly, until he knew just what exactly Potter had been asking for. And then the anticipation coiled into hot anger, and he wanted to maul Potter right then and there, and Potter had tilted his head back very invitingly, his green eyes flat and dead…

One of these days, Potter, he hears himself saying, You’ll be found bloodied up in your own bedroom chambers and I’ll be off to Iceland and leaving this bloody war behind me.

Potter actually laughs at that, as if his death is a funny thing and he had said something extraordinary clever.

I’ll be waiting for it, Malfoy, he says, and he sounds almost delighted. Potter is delighted about the thought of his own death.

Fuck Potter, he finally snaps, and the beast inside him wishes many things he would not think of doing in his right sane mind. Why don’t you just die off and save us all the trouble, you’re a right nutcase, do you know that?

I know. Potter does not even sound abashed.

Here, have some more. Have the fucking whole bottle, if you must. He thrusts the bottle at Potter. Drink yourself to death. And for the record, Granger’s right. You won’t try to pull your stunts while I’m with you because you’re too noble to actually kill yourself when you have someone to save. Still Saint Potter after all these years. He makes sure that his old contempt is brought forth, his lips spitting out the foul nickname from their adolescent days. Pity that, I’m saving you from a certain death. And you from mine.

It seems like we’re saving each other, then, isn’t it?

And then Potter laughs and laughs, and it is a hollow laugh, it is a tired laugh. He nurses his drink in one hand as he throws his head back and barks out that crazed, high-pitched laugh. It grates on his ears, and he wants to snap at Potter to shut up and listen to him, but Potter is too far gone. He wheezes and chokes and suddenly, he screams and the walls and tapestries rattle and shake. Magic, he thinks.

I wish Teddy was here, Potter whispers, when his bouts of screams make him worn out. His voice is broken and raw. His speech is slurred. Fuck, or I wish that—I wish we were eleven. Things were so fucking simple, Malfoy, we only had a snitch and a three-headed dog to worry about. I was learning how to levitate stupid feathers.

And I was learning how to hex my enemies, although I didn’t a good job of it, he does not say. He does not know what Potter even means by a three-headed dog, but he supposes, Potter is a madman and he must oblige in the whims of one. It is the story of his sad life.

Potter chuckles. I’m going mad, Potter whispers. I have these dreams, Malfoy—I don’t know if they’re real, or—

Fuck your dreams, he thinks savagely, fuck all our dreams, fuck Dark Lords and fanatic schemes of murder, fuck our world that left a child on a pedestal to fight down a maniac, fuck you for ever trying to save us all. Fuck you for succeeding and making me see you in such a broken state.

The feral beast inside him, it wants to claw Potter, hold him, close off those screams and suffocate him. He wants to coo at the other boy, grip that pale face between his hands and nuzzle behind his ears. He wants to offer comfort, but he cannot, he cannot expose his own ghosts and hope they may find comfort amidst their ruined skeletons. They cannot build something out of broken men.

His grip on the cup tightens.

.

.

.

Harry lets Malfoy’s thoughts wash over inside his head as he watches himself laugh and scream and act unhinged. He does not remember this night, but then again, he does not remember most nights when they drink. They are scattered and hazy. It is always Harry that gets drunk and speaks on, and Malfoy who nurses his drink slowly and speaks to his words with precise coldness. Now, in this darkened night, there are empty bottles of Firewhiskey rolling around the floor, and eventually it is Malfoy who stands up and helps up a slouching Harry out of his armchair. Malfoy’s thoughts are conflicted and bitter, but in the end, the vilest thoughts are the ones that Malfoy speaks. Harry does not know what to make of this. He does not know what to make of Malfoy’s beast and his nightmares, he does not know why he had opened up to Malfoy as he had not done to his friends. Perhaps because he had expected Malfoy to kill him. He thought Malfoy would have relished such an opportunity. It would have been so easy—a drop of poison in the soup, a transforming accident, the magic words. Malfoy could have escaped.

But Malfoy, under his words and his mask, is just as broken as he is. Harry does not know what to make of that. They cannot destroy anything with broken men.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Harry is back in the hospital like a good boy after his stint at the Ministry. He wakes up, disoriented and groggy. He finds his lock of hair jet black and unruly, just as he had always known it, and a sour taste inside his mouth. When Ron comes to visit in the following evening, he is already stuffed with copious amounts of tea and bored from lying in bed all day. He has great fun yelling inside his own head, trying to summon up Riddle or Voldemort or even Death, but none come to humor him and explain just why he would be able to read Malfoy’s thoughts, or even dream about Malfoy back in their good old Grimmauld days. He settles for staring mutinously at the white walls around him and insist that he was fine and ready to get out of the hospital, and even the most cheerful Healers have a haggard look about their faces by the time lunchtime rolls around. When Ron comes down into his room for a visit, he is ushered in with great ceremony and pomp. He hears a Healer whispering just outside the doorway, “Mr. Potter is feeling a bit tetchy” and Ron snorts and replies that dear Harry had always been that way, never mind him, it was the war, you see. He says it in such a conciliatory, reassuring manner that Harry can’t bring it to be mad at him, the way he throws around _war_ like a symptom of something one must overcome. Ron was used to explaining to people about Harry and his many aggressive ways by now; the words seem to flow naturally. Ron the every-patient meditator between his tetchy friend and the world at large. Ron the grown-up. Ron the man who moved on. (Harry, your attitude is not really helping, he hears Hermione rebuke. He imagines sticking out his tongue.) After a brief silence, Ron sticks his head out through the doorway before the rest of his lanky body follows. In his hand there is his old wizarding chess set.

“Alright there, Harry?” he says casually. “Thought you’d be bored, so…yeah.” He gives out a rueful grin and Harry cannot help but twitch his lips. He must try, anyway, and it is easiest to feign lightness with Ron, who has not seen him in his grey moments, and who would pretend that Harry had not gone off to confront Malfoy just the day before. They will pretend, until Harry sees it fit to tell him everything in his own right time.

“Ron,” he says, as Ron gives him a lopsided grin and gestures helplessly to his dirtied robes. “Bad day in the field, then?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Ron makes a face as he stomps his feet to ward off any residual mud, “Reckon the Healers will chase me out if my robes are like this?” He waggles his eyebrows dramatically and jerks his thumb at the doorway. “Met one out here and she seemed happy to let me in, anyhow. Or maybe that’d be because you were being—what did she call you again?”

“Barking mad,” Harry says with a small smile. “But don’t let that scare you. Come in, before you want to test another batch of them.”

Ron rolls his eyes and steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a snap. “Bloody rough day,” he explains with a grimace. “We’ve been ransacking Malfoy’s house and found old artifacts hidden right and left. Not all of them are Dark, yeah,” Ron adds hastily when Harry raises an eyebrow. “And—hell, don’t give me that look, Harry, it was Shaklebolt’s idea, he didn’t want to take any chances. Even though you’re all for his innocence. You and Hermione both.” Ron sighs and sits at the edge of the bed. He starts taking out the chess pieces and curses as the red ones topple around the lumped bedsheets. “Hold the Queen, Harry, she’s going to jump off the—yeah, good. Bloody senile, that one. Anyway, just because Malfoy’s turned into a werewolf, she thinks that he needs some sort of protection against the Ministry that’s trying to do his lot in—”

“She’s not entirely off, Ron,” Harry points out. Ron throws him a sour look that follows by a resigned one.

“Yeah, you and her both, I meant. Am I the only one who remembers Malfoy from our Hogwarts years? Just because he became a werewolf doesn’t mean he’s a changed man. Or beast. Stupid git, always throwing hexes behind Neville…although, I reckon he did that less when he was with all of us. I’d say he saved up his worst when you weren’t around, maybe that’s why you’ve gone soft on him. Acting as his _ward_ , of all things.” He sets up the rest of the chess pieces as he talks, his hands caked with mud. Harry hears Ron’s words and something sounds off. _Throwing hexes behind Neville_ …but Malfoy had always been very eager to save his nastiest tricks for Harry. There was something about this story, just as Malfoy’s slip of his tongue back at Azkaban, that they were not fully acknowledging. Harry does a quick Scourgify with his hand and Ron rolls his eyes at him.

“Cheers, mate, although I don’t think you should be using magic so soon. Here, pick your color, what’ll you have?”

“White,” Harry says easily, his hand twitching. “I didn’t know he took it out on Neville that much. The way I see it, he was too busy trying to do us in.”

“Yeah, but that changed when…” Ron stops. His brow furrowing. Harry watches him, keeping his face blank, careful not to betray anything. He makes sure that his hand is steady when he adjusts the chessboard lain in front of them.

“Er.” Ron shakes his head a little, scratching his head. He looks frustrated and bewildered all at once, his eyes intent on the chessboard. A good sign, then. “I—I mean. Never mind. Go on, make your move.”

“No,” Harry says calmly. “Let’s talk about Malfoy being a jackass, I find that remarkably more entertaining,”

“Don’t we all,” Ron mutters, but his eyes do not look up to meet Harry’s gaze. “Look, Harry, drop it for now. I got—confused. You’re right, Malfoy’s always been eager to attack you, so I don’t see why you’d want to defend him when he might’ve gotten you bedridden.”

“Ron,” Harry tries again, “You said that—Malfoy was with us? When was he? Malfoy was never _with_ us, not the way you put it. Or am I…maybe I hit my head in the wrong place.” He laughs, a false terrible laugh that has Ron twitching in his seat. Ron’s frown deepens and now he is actively glaring at the chessboard. “I only remember how he was all too eager to get us expelled. He certainly had no soft spots for _me_.”

“I—yeah, true.” Ron’s voice is barely a mumble.

Harry worries his lips between his teeth. Always the direct way with Ron, then, he thinks, not that I expected otherwise. “Ron?” he asks tentatively, “What…House was I sorted into?”

Ron is silent for a long moment, his posture very still that Harry is afraid he had not asked the question. Harry waits, the question once again on his lips, ready to be asked again, when Ron snaps his head up and looks at Harry, his eyes wide and troubled.

“That’s the thing, Harry,” he says, just as carefully and slowly as Harry posed the question just minutes before, “I can’t really be sure.”

Harry lets out a breath. He can work with this. “Okay,” he says. “What does your memory tell you?”

.

.

.

Before Hermione comes bursting in his room, Ron and Harry piece together the basic gaps in their memory. Ron remembers the train ride vividly and he remembers conflicting accounts of the troll (“Did we or did we not rescue Hermione?” Ron asks) and about how Snape was a bastard who was set on murdering Harry, but also Quirrell who talked to himself in empty classrooms about his own murderous plans to kill the young Boy-Who-Lived. But then after that, Ron’s memory fogs—he remembers the Chambers, Sirius Black (“But I remember you swiping away Scabber in first year, thought you were mental even then,” Ron says and Harry dryly voices out his thanks) the Triwizard Tournament (“When you were being a git?” Harry asks and Ron grunts)—Ron remembers their Hogwarts years, and Harry is relieved to note, as Harry in Gryffindor.

“But also you in Slytherin,” Ron says, and his eyes are sharp, glaring down that chess pieces that have decided to take matters into their own hands to ransack the chessboard. The crowing Red Queen swipes off the white Knight. Harry winces. “Unless I’m going mental. I remember how I almost took Malfoy’s head out when we were in the library, searching about the Philosopher’s Stone. Ranting lunatic, he was, harping about how being around blood traitors and the like. Funny, you’d think that Hermione told us about Nicolas Flamel the first time around…” Ron looks nervous. “Harry? Tell me that I’m not going mad.”

“You aren’t,” he is quick to reassure. “Or, I mean. If you are, then I am too, I guess, and I suppose we’d have to ask Hermione about it all over again, and _then_ we could all be merrily loony.”

“I don’t appreciate your sense of humor,” Ron grumbles.

And so, when Hermione comes into the room, she is swamped with Ron’s babbling and Harry’s silence. She takes it all in stride.

“I remember you,” Hermione says slowly, “As a Slytherin. But as a Gryffindor more.” She wrinkles her nose. “Does that even make sense?”

“I think we can all check into the mental ward now,” Ron says faintly. “Merlin. So it’s not just us, then?”

“It must be you.” Hermione turns to Harry. Harry does his best to meet her stare. Hermione has that look about her, her mind whirling with the possibilities of why this might happen, why the events of their past would be so screwed… “Harry—you’re doing something with our memories. Or our timeline. Either way you—are you using a time-turner?” The last word is said in a very accusatory tone that Harry does not feel is warranted, and his voice is cool when he replies.

“No, I know what happens to wizards who mess with time-turners.”

“ _Do_ you?” Hermione’s eye narrow at him and Harry glares back. “A conflicting account of events is only the least of it, Harry. What if you get stuck?”

“I’m not using a time-turner, I said,” Harry says hotly, but Hermione overrides him.

“Yes, I heard your wording. Not using a time-turner, honestly, Harry, do you think I’m daft? There are other ways to go back in time, most of them all assuredly illegal.”

Harry folds his arms and looks away.

“What,” Ron says dumbly, looking back from Hermione to Harry, “So, yeah. Harry, you are? Going back in time, that is?”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Harry says crossly. He feels agitated and angry ( _surprise, surprise_ , a droll voice echoes inside him, _so you came back and retained your eleven-year-old petulance and emotions, how very charming of you_ ) at his friends’ looks, and musters up a patience he does not feel.  “What I’d like to know is, why I came back.”

And fainted away, leaving Malfoy to be carted off to Azkaban, he leaves hanging.

“What _I’d_ like to know,” Hermione snaps, “is: what were you thinking?! Time travel is very dangerous, you know that! What if you didn’t come back? Was this during your coma? How is that possible? _How is this possible_?” She whirls to a bewildered Ron, who gives her a half-shrug and fiddles with his hands. “You’re the one chasing after all these Dark Artifacts, Ron, honestly… Harry, I’ve been meaning to ask you, but did you tinker with one of the Dark Artifacts lying about in your house? You know not to mess around with them—”

“I wasn’t messing around—”

“And what if you were stuck there, in an infinite time loop? That does happen, more often than you’d think! What if you were completely stuck there and over here, you’d just be in this bed, day in and day out, leaving us hanging about, not knowing when you’d wake—”

“Breathe, Hermione,” Ron interjects, and about this time, Harry had just about had it. Rotten temper he once had, and he is remembering how nasty he had once been, before apathy and nothingness took him over.

(Oh no, Riddle says, you always had that inside you. You’re just very good at playing the hero. You think it would all just go away in its own good time if you suppress it long enough. Utterly sickening and noble of you, but there you have it, _Chosen One_.)

“Maybe I wasn’t meaning to come back, how about that?” he snaps back, quite viciously, and that shuts up Hermione long enough for him to continue on, “I know things now—we all do, and it’s been bugging me quite a lot to be honest, the war, and I thought—I mean, doesn’t everyone think that—if I went back and did some things all over again, maybe we’d win faster and maybe people would be alive and—”

“No!” Hermione all but shouts at him now, and Ron jumps up out of bed, casting a wary glance at her, “Yes, of course we know things about the war, of course it’s bothering all of us, but you don’t see me ransacking the Ministry for unregistered time-turners to fix everything up, do you? It’s dangerous, you have no way of knowing whether your plan would work, you—”

“Of course I don’t know that!” Harry shouts too, and this is it, he thinks, this is the first fight that he truly has with Hermione, the vile words crawling at his throat and itching to get past him, the shouts and the accusations just waiting to be thrown. Years of Hermione screaming at him, only to have him withdraw first and become sullen in his silence, years of near misses and Harry shouting at her that he wanted to die, Hermione backing off, all their stony truces and one-way screaming for naught. “But it’s worth a try, yeah? Anything’s better than the war we fought, it shouldn’t have ended that way, and maybe if I was better at everything I could have changed something, Voldemort would have been defeated long before then, and fuck, Hermione, right now I don’t have—”

“Don’t you say it,” Ron says suddenly, his voice deadly, “ _Don’t you dare_.”

Harry stops. He breathes out. Hermione presses her lips tightly together and looks at Ron. Ron stands before him, his face set and furious. His fists are clenched and Ron glares at him, daring him to. Just.

_I don’t have anything I want here._

He could have said it. He could have made Ron shout and storm out of the room, he could have had Hermione weeping and following in his wake, and he would have been left alone in his hospital room, waiting for Death to overtake him again. He could have said it and they could have shouted back, and what about us, and the living, Harry? But he does not; there is something blazing around Ron’s blue eyes, his look that speaks of enough losses and grief, and Harry is not cruel enough yet to take away more from his best friend. So Harry swallows the words and shoves them back deep into his ugly mind. He breathes in. Out.

“I wanted to change something,” Harry says tiredly. He does not bother to apologize. “I don’t know what.”

He knows what he wants; he knows what kind of person he had become, what caused him to be so, what haunted his bed at night. He just did not have the words to eloquently excuse himself.

“We know that,” Ron says, in a calmer voice. He sits back down on the bed and beings to fuss around with the chessboard until the pieces form a semblance of order (the Red Queen grudgingly gives back a decapitated head to the White King) and motions for Hermione to sit down. She hesitates only for a brief moment before she does. The bed groans a little under their weight. It reassures him somewhat—the solid weight, their solemn gazes.

“Harry,” Hermione says, her voice also quieter, “There are other ways to fix things. Other—safer ways. It doesn’t all have to be about the big and the great. You can’t just—hop onto the most outlandish way to go about things.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Harry says. He closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his scar. “I was just trying to…we were just all very young then, I thought. I just wanted to start over.” A clean slate, if I had one, Harry thinks, but in that world I returned to, there was no such thing. Voldemort still appears and mocks me, Snape is still stubborn and evil, Malfoy is dubious at best. What could I have changed, what can I still.

Hermione reaches over slowly. Her hand is cold when she touches him; he lets her take one hand and squeezes it. “I know,” she says softly. “We know.”

Are you going back, she does not ask.

Do you not think of us when you leave everything behind, Ron does not demand.

How do you go on as if everything did not happen, Harry does not say.

Older, they have their silence and their unspoken conversations dangling in that bare room. Older, they hold hands like the children they once were and pretend their fights had never happened, that they are still infallible and brilliant, just as they all had been all those years ago.

“Harry Potter in Slytherin,” Ron only murmurs, “Snape’ll be having a field day over this in his grave, I’ll bet.”

Hermione and Harry exchange wan smiles.

.

.

.

In the beginning there was only the flat, barren wasteland.

There was nothing else for miles around. Walk down a dusty road, and the weary traveler would stagger on in vain, hoping for water and food, perhaps a town to rest, a dragon to ride, only to have himself stumble down to his death. To dust we came and to dust we shall return. The land is devoid of everything but the cold night skies and the fine white sand. Look up and you may see the green Lights that shimmer and mock you for your smallness. Cold and empty, this world is. You may walk, my dear, in this barren land in search of something and find yourself with nothing. This is the beginning.

Or, as mother used to say, her voice a soft lull, in the beginning was Magic, raw and primal in its form. There could have been no one foolish enough to contain what had been there always. Magic _is_ , mother used to say, and she would not elaborate more. What about it, I would demand of her. But she would think that would be enough for my young mind, that I was somehow smart enough to fill in the void that she herself had never bothered to explain. Magic is. Fill in what you will, Draco, for Magic had been there before we were born; so it shall remain when we eventually perish.

The story ends. The silence is brief.

More, more! I demand. I am a child; and Harry watches this child.

A younger Narcissa Malfoy tucking in a child that had once been Draco Malfoy to bed. Child Malfoy looking at his mother with his wide eyes at hearing the once desolate world without people and ancient tales of magic. Narcissa Malfoy conjuring up a vision of a flat desert that dangles around them, and the child, his small arms scrabbling to hold the vision before it dissolves into the air. To dust we came and to dust we shall return, the child repeats. His voice is high and grave. It is young.

Harry observes them for a moment longer, before glancing at the older boy standing next to him.

Huh, he says to an unresponsive Malfoy. It seems that I’m in your head again. Or your dreams. How do you do that? He pauses and looks back at scene before them. Child Malfoy clutches a delicate hand. He crows in delight and Narcissa laughs. It is a motherly laugh; strangely, Harry feels a pang in his own chest.

That’s a bleak tale, he tries again. Older Malfoy does not respond, his figure stiff and unresponsive next to him. Malfoy observes his childlike persona with a cold look. Narcissa Malfoy and the child continue on in their own little world, oblivious to the intruders who observe them from the far future.

Perhaps another story, then, she coos at her only heir. Well then…there once was a boy who lived…

Harry turns his head again to Malfoy, his mouth agape. You mother told you about me? he asks dumbly.

You were a legend, Potter, has no one ever told you that? Malfoy finally speaks, his voice irate. Why you would come and bother me in my own dreamscape, I can only guess. My mind must be going mental in that rotting cell.

But—

Shut up, Potter, if you’re going to stay for this. Malfoy snaps, and Harry’s lips snap shut. Malfoy looks mildly surprised before his glare shifts into a contemplating look. At least I can tell you what to do. That’ll be a first.

Harry rolls his eyes.

The mother continues on about Harry Potter the legend, only she leaves out his name, she does not talk of his half-blood status, she erases out blood and enemies and war. She weaves a story about an infant who defeated the greatest sorcerer of their time, she crafts up a tale about a boy who was cunning and sly, who was wily and great. She makes Harry into a Slytherin without the malice; she waves her hand and a child with a scar upon his forehead materializes into view and bows down to the child, who is delighted. It does not look anything like Harry, truth to be told. The figure wears a small smirk on his face and is donned in Slytherin robes, and it has a confident posture that reminds Harry more of Riddle than himself. The child looks upon this creation of his mother’s magic with greedy eyes, and when he turns to his mother he demands, Will I be able to meet him?

Narcissa smiles. Yes, but of course, she replies. He’s just your age, Draco. He’ll be going to Hogwarts, too. And he may be a hero, and he may have saved us all, but he would need a friend when you’re at school, won’t he?

He will, the child says. He grins. It is not a nice smile, but Harry thinks, a little amused, it is somehow endearing. The grin the child wears is fierce without malevolent intent.

Be nice, Draco, his mother says soothingly. Use your charm. One can never go wrong with a Malfoy; you’ll just have to show him. She soothes out his hair and the child snuggles back into his pillows, his eyes drooping. Sleep, my dear. The loving voice of a mother fades into the background.

 

The scene fades. They are left in darkness and a void.

Well, he wants to say, fancy that. You wanted us to be friends.

That was a long time ago, Potter, Malfoy says savagely, and Harry turns to him in surprise.

I didn’t say—

Yes, well, my dreamscape, and still I can’t get rid of you and your inane thoughts. They echo, Potter, Malfoy says in disgust, when Harry only looks at him confused. Your thoughts. I can read them.

Oh.

Malfoy sighs. This is a stupid dream, he mutters.

Why those bedtime stories? I thought you’d dream something…

Harry gestures helplessly with his hands towards his mouth.  Malfoy grimaces and waves his hand again. Harry’s mouth opens and closes.

Why indeed. People do get nostalgic from time to time, Potter, it’s not unheard of, Malfoy says darkly. He looks around. I don’t want to be stuck in such an ugly place with a blasted figment of my imagination, thanks. I’d like to wake up.

Who are you speaking to, Harry says, somewhat resigned. And what do you mean, I’m a figment of your imagination? I’m me.

As if that’s ever so eloquent. I seem to have your persona down very nicely inside my head, Malfoy sneers. He begins to pace around. The space they cohabit does not seem to have any boundaries, but nevertheless, Malfoy’s gait does not make him move further away. Tell me then, Potter, what are you doing in my head?

I’d like to ask that myself, Harry says. He feels light-headed and consequences of his words and actions do not seem to matter in this particular space. You’re not really my first choice for my dream eloping fantasy, you know. Just because you fancy me—

I don’t fancy you, Malfoy snaps immediately, and whirls around. His eyes glitter dangerously.

Harry shrugs. You did kiss me, he points out.

This should bother him. Why doesn’t it?

Yes, why doesn’t it, Potter, Malfoy replies to his thoughts, and he speaks through gritted teeth. For the record, it wasn’t anything, it was a reflective response—you were dead for weeks, and then you come back alive as you’ve always been and my parents—

Malfoy stops. He does not continue on.

Harry thinks, I’m sorry about your parents. Malfoy does not say anything to that and lowers his head down. His hands are curled into fists. Harry does not express false sentiments he does not feel for the Malfoys, but he finds it in himself to add, The Ministry shouldn’t have done that. I—I would have done something sooner if this was what came out of it.

 _Pointless magical blood wasted_ , a voice from long ago speaks inside him. High and cold; monstrous and regal. Harry does his best not to flinch.

It was just a reaction, Potter, it didn’t mean anything, Malfoy whispers again, after a long silence. Harry knows better than to contest it further, but his mind wants to persist.

I would think so too, but…He stops and tries to gather his words, strings them out carefully. I seem to be popping inside your head at random intervals—tell me if I’m wrong, but that seems to be a bit more than a coincidence—

Potter, is this your way of telling me that you’ve never kissed anyone before? Malfoy says scathingly. People kiss all the time, they don’t suddenly develop _mind bonds_. Or whatever you may call it. Merlin, you mind is a train wreck. Also, this is a dream. You're in my head. I must be going mad. The last sentence is half-directed at himself.

Harry blinks. Well, he says, Maybe. But you were always a bit mad—

Shut it, Potter, I don’t need you—or me—to tell me things I don’t want to hear, Malfoy snaps. He runs a hand through his hair. You’re hardly the one to talk. You wanted to die, Potter, or have we forgotten about our little chat? Before _that_ , you imbecile, Malfoy adds in quickly, a scowl forming on his face as Harry raises an eyebrow.

Before you shoved me to the wall and smothered me? Harry says blithely, just because he can with Malfoy, and Malfoy glowers at him. Why, yes I did. Mad as a hatter, I am. Tell me then, do I often pop out into your dreams like this?

Malfoy sneers. You’re usually younger, Malfoy says. _I’m_ younger. We have a little picnic by the lake down at Hogwarts and you introduce me to your half-breed friends and I don’t insult them to my pleasure. What do you think about that?

So we are friends, Harry points out, and Malfoy responses to this with a snarl.

No, Potter, the point is that everything happening here is proven suspect, and you’re usually not this annoying. Don’t, and Malfoy throws a dirty look at where his younger self had been projected just moments before, Don’t. Talk. I detest your stupid words.

Harry crosses his arms. Why don’t you chase me out then, if my presence is bothering you?

Usually, you’re not this talkative, Malfoy says. I am hoping for a change of scenery.

So I do—

Yes, Potter, you come out in my dreams. We’re playing friends and you’re a Slytherin and the damned war never happened. Or better yet, everything’s not changed much, except that I maul you and bite you and you beg underneath me—how do you like that? Malfoy’s grin is all teeth. Or no—it’s not a question of whether you like it, is it? It’s a question of how you’d like to be mauled and bitten. Fuck, Potter. Get out of my head. Malfoy’s voice, by this time, has grown weary and tired just as Harry had always felt. Isn’t it enough you get to have a say in how my life would turn out? Must you come and order me about in my own dreams too? Let me face my past in peace. It’s the only thing I have left nowadays.

Harry obliges him.  There is nothing more to say without aggravating him further. He could not say to this defeated Malfoy, I am trying to save you, I am trying to save us all. Those are empty promises and hollow vows. He could not even vouch for Malfoy’s innocence in his own lifetime. Strange, that Malfoy’s words should leave such a bitter taste in his mouth. _Wake up_ , he thinks instead, and he feels a tug of strings. An eerie hand beckons to him.

Goodbye, Malfoy, he says. He does not bother with apologies and their past choices.

.

.

.

He wakes.

The world of the living is full of Sirius Black’s face. Sirius’s eyes are very black and brimmed with worry. His face is properly shaved, handsome and young. Blinking, the face comes into focus. He’s awake! Yes, I can see him very clearly, Black, contain your shock. Harry smells fresh bed linens, a sharp cutting smell that soothes him. Hospital Wing, he thinks blearily. He lets a shaky grin stretch across his face. Sirius does not return it.

“Harry,” Sirius croaks. “Merlin. Do you do that often? Just—fainting away without warning and not breathing? What is wrong with him, did you found out?” Sirius quickly turns his head and directs the question to Snape, who is keeping his distance at the foot of the bed. He is met with a sneer.

“He doesn’t have seem to have James Potter’s sensibilities at least,” Snape says. His lips curl. “He’s fine now, Black, as you can see for yourself. He must have suffered a concussion at seeing your poorly state. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You—” Sirius stands up abruptly, his mouth feral. He just as quickly sits down. “Never mind, I don’t have time for you right now.”

Don’t talk about Sirius like that, Harry bites down. His hands are shaking as he tries to smoothen down his hair. A cup of water is thrust towards him and he laps it up gratefully.

“I’m fine,” he says, when he finds his voice. It is younger, brighter. It is easier to feign normalcy when one’s voice has not acquired the gravity of a man. “I—just a shock. Nothing to worry about.” He blinks and smiles at Sirius. Blinks again. I won’t be able to get used to this, he thinks. Sirius alive. Sirius happy. Sirius and Snape. Fuck.

Tick tock, Riddle whispers.

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Snape is a ruthless teacher. Harry wonders why he had forgotten this part: Snape shouting, Harry snapping and destructing havoc on the classroom. Snape insulting his father and Harry biting back his tongue from spilling out Snape’s worst humiliation. Snape does not mention his eccentric existence and Harry does not offer tidbits of the future to come. It is a fragile line that they tread, but it works, if only Harry grits his teeth and bears it. Harry comes out of that bastard’s classroom covered in welts and bruises and cuts; he staggers to the common room and plops himself in front of the simmering fire, nursing a particularly tender wound, staring gloomily at the embers. He does not seek Malfoy out, nor sneak up to the Gryffindor common room. He does not write to Sirius. What would he write about? Sirius would be busy for his upcoming trial with Pettigrew, there was no need to whine to him about the harsh lines of Snape’s mouth whenever he met eyes with Harry…

What does he think of? Harry wonders. For Snape had never been pleasant, but Harry had harbored illusions about his old Potions Professor ever since the final battle years ago. So you once fancied my mum, I suppose that’d make us friends, Professor. He could imagine him saying that and Snape throwing a fatal hex at him.

But Snape does teach him; however unwillingly and scathingly he pursues about his methods, he does show him the dark and nefarious curses Snape had once used, and Harry uses them determinedly. The more Harry succeeds in them the stonier Snape’s face grows, and at the end of the lessons Snape would remark about his talent for the Dark Arts, spitting out the compliment like a vile insult. Harry takes what he can get.

“You’re brooding, Potter.”

Malfoy sits next to him. Icky little first year Draco Malfoy. Who is not a werewolf. Who does not haunt his dreams. Who had once heard stories about a Harry Potter that had never existed. Harry turns his head to look at him.

“I’m thinking,” he answers.

Malfoy huffs. “Pity for us all,” Malfoy says. Underneath his presence of irk, he looks tired. Small hands reach up to rub his eyes. “When you think up mad schemes, it means more library time for both Granger and Weasley.”

“Not you?” Harry allows a smile.

“I keep you from devising horrid theories,” Malfoy says. “Granger’s out of her wits, ever since you came back out of the Hospital Wing. You’d think she lost a limb. Is Black really your godfather?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. Malfoy tries to pass off a shrug but his eyes betray his curiosity.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” he snipes. “Famous Harry Potter and the notorious Sirius Black. He was sprinting out of the dungeons, carrying you off and bellowing for Madam Pomfrey. And then Granger thought you were dead, and she went frantic over it. You and your obsession with Death. What a moronic girl.” Malfoy says this with a full air of disdain, not quite voicing out his dislike for Muggleborns and cleverer witches than he, but nevertheless his tone speaks volumes. Harry hides a smirk.

“And did she find anything out?” Harry says.

Malfoy throws him a withering glare. “If she did,” Malfoy says waspishly, “She would be banging on our common room and we would never hear the end of it. Honestly, Potter, you really get on with the wrong sort.”

“We’re not going there again.”

Malfoy’s lips twist but does not push the issue. They sit together, contemplating the fire. A brief silence. Respite.

.

.

.

The next time Harry wakes up in a white room with its soft sheets and a throbbing headache, he knows what to do. He summons a parchment and a quill and scribbles hurriedly,

_Take Malfoy out of Azkaban. Talk to Shacklebolt and release his charges. Don’t make him do anything rash._

His hand shakes as he writes down the words. He stares at the last words, wondering whether to reassure Hermione and Ron about his motives, his plans, his broken mind. In the end he only had one promise to offer them.

_I’ll come back._

With that, he folds the paper carefully and sets it by his bedside table. He closes his eyes and allows sleep to overtake him again. He feels very tired.

.

.

.

But he does not reenter his past quite so soon.

 

He sits atop a meadow. A cool breeze blows upon this small hill. He does not know where he is—but then, he turns his head and finds that such matters are not very important. He soon finds out that he is not alone. A boy is glaring at him.

Hello, Harry says.

In this dream, he is not Dumbledore when he meets Tom Riddle again at the orphanage. He does not set fire to Riddle’s walls and hear him scream and Harry does not relish in young Tom Riddle’s death. He is just Harry, and in front of him is Tom Riddle as a small child. He had never seen Riddle quite so young.

Riddle is very thin and has a hard look about his face, not yet learnt in the ways of formal manners and faux pleasantries. Those would come later when the boy goes to Hogwarts; now, Harry is treated to the unfiltered, raw version of the boy Riddle once was: hungry and unhappy. Angry and violent.

Who are you, Riddle says. His voice is snappish.

An observer, Harry murmurs. Strange that he does not feel anything. He had almost expected to be here, it seems. He is sitting under a tree and the scent of grass surrounds them. Harry smiles. Riddle makes a snarling sound. Come over. I won’t bite.

But I will, Riddle warns. He does take a tentative step forth, though. It is very childlike. Riddle is wary of this intruder.

Harry laughs. Are you scared, Riddle? he asks. Mocking and goading, this is what he knows best in front of his once-nemesis that had tried to kill him. Time had allowed him to have a morbid sense of humor.

It is also the right thing to say. In a flash, Riddle sprints the remaining distance between them, his eyes blazing. His little hands are balled into fists.

Hardly, Riddle spits. You’ve just ruined a very good moment right now, and…The boy stops and narrows his eyes. How did you know my name?

Harry does not answer this. He had noticed the blood smeared on the boy’s hands. He cranes his neck a little and yes, there he sees. Just where Riddle was standing moments before, a bloodied rabbit wheezes its final breath. The smell is masked by the springtime air, but once Harry sees it he cannot take his eyes off the mangled corpse. Riddle follows his eyes and allows a smirk to come forth. Riddle had been a monstrous child, how he had forgotten this?

Yes, Riddle says casually, I did that. Impressive, isn’t it?

Repulsive, Harry says, before he can help it. It is not his place to berate this orphan; he would soon grow up to be a monster anyhow and Harry would kill him for his many crimes.

He would, oh he would. He would think. But Riddle’s eyes flash at that, and there is something other than hate and rage brimming in those eyes.

You’d think, Riddle says. His voice is cool and dismissive. They lack gravity, but then, this boy is still very young. You’re just like the rest of them. Weak and foolish, I’ve just about had it with this blasted place—

Harry sees other things too. Riddle is heavily undernourished and bruised, and the boy holds himself in an aggressive stance as if waiting for an attack to come. Riddle would never wait for him to strike first; he is a rash child and he will grow up to be a mercurial man.

Riddle steps nearer until he crowds Harry’s eyesight and hisses. _Come out, bite this man._

A snake slithers forth. A small garden snake, Harry notes with great amusement. There must be a lack of serpents here in this side of Great Britain. The snake coils and hisses back. _Where shall I bite him?_

 _You shall not,_ Harry hisses, and Riddle jerks at this, while the snake darts back its head, momentarily confused.

 _He speaks the tongue_ , the snake observes, its tongue flickering out.

Riddle looks baffled, but the look is replaced with sullen anger. _So he can._

 _Doesn’t make you feel very special now, does it?_ Harry says conversationally. _If you want, you can take the rabbit. I’m sure Tom left it there just for you._

The snake twists its body and finds the rabbit. It straightens its body before slithering towards the rabbit eagerly, and both Harry and Riddle watch the snake as it gobbles up the dead rabbit. It leaves no trace save for the blood smears on the grassy ground.

It’s not a common gift, if you must know, Harry says, reverting back into English. But still. There are people who can speak to snakes. 

Riddle throws a sour look at him.

How did you learn it?

I came by it. Harry shrugs. Not important. It’s not…abnormal. Or extraordinary, don’t consider yourself a god amongst mortals.

Riddle sneers. The other idiots at the place don’t think so.

You mean the orphanage.

Riddle glowers. _Yes_ , I mean the orphanage. Must you be so blunt? You haven’t answered me. Who are you and how did you know my name?

Harry smiles. There are many words he would use to describe him and none fit this peculiar encounter.

A detached observer, he repeats.

Bollocks, Riddle says immediately. Harry only shrugs a little and does not offer more. A tense moment passes. Riddle sits in front of him and stares at his face. Harry lets him, intentionally relaxing his shoulders.

Riddle feels wild and untamed. His poor state of clothes does not reflect his face, which is aristocratic and pale as Harry had always known it. He has that haughty look even at this young age, and were it not for the gaunt cheekbones and his bloodied fingers, Harry would have thought him a young heir from an old Wizarding family.

Except for those eyes, that do not have that coolness and reservation for dignity. Riddle had not yet learned to mask his emotions, and it is somehow refreshing to read something in that handsome face. They probe him, hungry and open to know about everything. Inquisitive for all the wrong reasons, Harry thinks.

Can you do things? Riddle asks.

Harry blinks. Things, he repeats.

Riddle gives him a scornful look. Things. Talking to snakes, disappearing somewhere, setting things loose…

Oh. Harry smiles. Yes, I can. Let me show you?

Riddle does not answer; with those bottomless eyes, he does not need to.

Harry brings out one of his hand so that his palm is turned upwards. He lets a small ball of fire float above it, a bluish glow. He contains a magical fire within a small circle. Riddle is instantly enrapt, his eyes growing wide. His mouth slackens.  

No, Riddle whispers. But it is not a word spoken with despair and vehemence. Seldom had this Dark Lord spoken the word with such awe and wonder. Never had this Lord shown delight.

But Tom Riddle shines, his eyes completely focused on the blue ball of warmth curling and flickering on Harry’s palm. He tentatively reaches out a hand and lets his fingers brush the edges of the flame. Without meaning to, Harry murmurs, Careful. You’ll get burnt.

I’m not an idiot, Riddle says. But the bite is gone from his words. He is mesmerized at the flame, and for a long time he simply looks at it. It’s nothing to what Riddle would later accomplish. It is nothing in the eyes of child growing up with magic—but Riddle is not that. Riddle is an orphan and very much alone, who is fascinated by a fire conjured out of thin air.  

By god, Harry thinks. There was a time when Voldemort was just a child.

He should have known, but back then there was not time to contemplate such matters; the past was gone and buried, and Voldemort had chosen his own way to destruct himself. It had not seemed very important in the grand scheme of things when Harry had pointed the Elder Wand in the last remaining soul of Tom Riddle and mocked him to show remorse. Riddle had refused and perished. He had not cared about Riddle’s childhood save for the fact that it may one day be held against the man Voldemort had turned into. Now, with time flummoxing and flexible to his whims, he is not so sure. The dark hair and those hooded eyes remind him of his own unhappy childhood. Something rankles inside his chest. He refuses to call it pity, for it is not a warm, loving feeling that enwraps Harry. It is something more terrible and darker than a desire to see Riddle happy. There is no real temptation to hold Riddle’s hand and tell the boy that Harry would make it all better. No, Harry cannot promise a better future, but he can sit there and understand the child’s rage that is constantly simmering. Empathy is the greatest evil Harry can offer to this child.

.

.

.

He knows what to ask of Riddle before he even meets the boy again in one of their sporadic meetings. The question slips out, natural and politely inquisitive. The words have always been there. Waiting.  

 

Why are you afraid of death, Harry asks.

 

They are in their tiny room again. It has been a long time since he had been here last, but the old familiarity of having tea with Riddle comes back to him as Riddle prepares about with his hands. Harry watches the nimble fingers move lazily about the tray, pouring the scalding water, crushing the tea leaves, letting the tea steep.

Riddle frowns. He does not answer at first; it does not seem as if he would answer at all. But Harry is patient and lets Riddle set the teacups. He does not touch his drink and neither does Riddle. The tea’s steam floats into the air and Harry watches it cool off.

For the reasons that would surely elude you, Riddle finally says.

Try me.

You accepted death once, you shall do so again if need arises, Riddle notes dryly. There is no point trying to explain it to you. You’re a martyr. You’d like to die. You prefer death over the living.

Harry straightens up in his chair, a retort ready on his lips. That’s not true.

Oh, isn’t it. I suppose it’s out of sheer boredom that you beckon me into your mind. Or is having tea with your old enemy all the rage these days? Riddle smiles, his words smeared with heavy condescension. It is a look that makes him younger than his years.

You’re the one who wants to explain what I feel on most days, Harry points out. Why don’t you guess.

I’d say you’re waiting for death to come take you again, Riddle decides. It’s a pity that my demise came from such a banal person. We could have burnt half of Britain before one of us was killed. Preferably you.

But I died, Harry says.

Yes, Riddle agreed flatly. Harry tries again.

What is death to you?

What is it to anyone? Now Riddle looks annoyed, running his hands through his hair swiftly. Why do people fear death?

Everyone does, Harry agrees. They just don’t try to make themselves immortal over it.

He is thinking of the child Riddle. What made that boy grow to seek a way out of being a mortal, what drove him to elude and conquer Death, what made him mad and deranged to secure his everlasting legacy over his soul, he wonders. Dumbledore once said that there was darkness in the child before he ever came to Hogwarts. If only the minds of children were as simple as that. The awe in Riddle’s eyes when he first saw the fire—what had the child been thinking of then?

Perhaps it’s your upbringing, Riddle mocks. Your meek, docile nature inside that cupboard of yours…

And you at your own dreadful orphanage?

Touché, Riddle says. His amusement is replaced with a sharp coldness. Just because you’ve seen a brief glimpse at my pitiful childhood…then let me put it this way, shall I? You have not been at war and I, unlike you, have seen its remnant and devastation.

I haven’t? Harry echoes. Have you met me? Have you met _us_? He gestures a hand between them.

Riddle ignores him.

You never quite forget the smell of burning flesh in wartime, Riddle muses. His voice is detached. The human body, it’s quite a foul thing to chance upon in the end. The blood and the excrement. The smell. Those stupid and worthless human faces before they beg to die because death is better than—

Riddle stops. He scowls, as if he had revealed something that he had not quite meant to. This does not happen quite often, and Harry presses it to his advantage.

So you felt horrified at people dying?

No, Riddle spits, You’re not listening. Those Mudbloods deserved to die. That gruesome war. They all should have been wiped out long before that.

Mudbloods? Harry says slowly. The war? Oh, you’re talking about Grindelwald’s war.

You’ve never been really good at listening. Riddle sighs. Better that I show you.

Riddle takes out his wand.

But you can't—this is our room, _my_ room—

I’m not going to kill you, Riddle drawls. Have patience. It’s your only redeeming virtue.

Harry becomes dumbfounded, as his eyes glaze over at Riddle’s wand as the other boy puts the wand against his head. Soon a silvery wisp of smoke is pulled out of Riddle’s temple. The smoke lures him into a hazy scene.

But why are you—Harry starts, and Riddle shrugs.

We’re in your head already, it shan’t do you any harm, Riddle says. His eyes glitter, After you, Harry.

He holds up a hand. Harry should not take it, but Riddle’s eyes gleam, and the hand is very forthcoming. Harry slides a palm over the older boy’s. It is cold to touch and mocking even in its invitation.

He closes his eyes and goes under.

.

.

.

Riddle’s landscape is a flat shade of grey.

 

In Riddle’s memories, there is only the sound of explosion and the smell of burnt debris. There is nothing more for miles around. It is a flat wasteland. Harry sees the bombs fall down in the grey skyline of the English countryside. He smells wood burning and hears the children screaming. Harry snaps his head up to see a familiar stony building. The lights are off.

This is your orphanage, Harry says.

Home sweet home, Riddle replies, voice cold.

The small shed out in the garden is burnt to the ground, but the orphanage stands intact. Riddle enters the building and Harry dutifully follows through, and they enter a dimly lit room after a narrow corridor that is entirely dark. The floors creak under them as they weave their way through wooden benches and tables. The children are whimpering under the tables and against the walls. Riddle walks around the room with a thinned mouth, until he finds himself, sitting next to the fireplace.

Here I am, Riddle says. Harry scuffles over to him and stops. His head turns slowly from one Riddle to the next.

You were…very thin, Harry finally manages out. Riddle’s soft hiss is his only answer.

The memories begin to blend in and blur together. Harry sees only the parts Riddle wish him to see, and the scenes dissipates with Riddle’s face growing colder and harsher as time passes. The bombing does not stop. The hunger is evident in the children’s eyes.

Riddle grows thinner in the orphanage, as he is surrounded by the sniffling children. Amidst them, Riddle’s eyes are alit with cold fire, as he clutches his empty bowl of grub and refuses to look at any of the other huddling orphans. He does not seek comfort from them, nor they from him. The inch away when he glares at them, but the sounds from outside make the younger children scream and scurry back to Riddle’s side. Riddle’s mouth is curled up in distaste, but better an enemy who is human than an enemy who brings wrath from the air. The walls are flimsy and shake as the planes roar past them, and even the matrons flinch and drop down to their knees to murmur an inconsequential prayer. They all crawl over to the tables where they then duck and hide under them. Only Riddle remains leaning against the vibrating walls, his lips pressed tight and glaring at the weeping matron and the children in anger. _We are all going to die_ , voices whisper. _We are all going to die like this_. They sob, holding their ration of porridge close to their chests, as if their bowls could save them from a German air raid. With each cry, Riddle tightens his grip on his meager bowl until his fingers grow white from the effort. His bones protrude beneath his dirty rags.

There were no bomb shelters for miles around, Riddle says next to him; Harry jumps a little. And the cellars were out-of-bounds for scums like us.

Why are you telling me this? Harry asks. His voice is harsh. He does not care to think Riddle had such a childhood. It is easier that they drift past all this—but Riddle throws him a shrug.

You wanted to see, Riddle says blandly. See death, understand the war that made me.

Harry has no retort ready for that, except for a feeble, But this is the Muggle war. I thought—Grindelwald—

Sometimes, Riddle says, Muggles are more devious in their killings. They can afford to die out in large numbers, can’t they?

Night comes. Riddle wears his Hogwarts robes to sleep, the Slytherin badge smeared with soot and grime. Riddle fingers his wand in his dreams as his body twitches with the sounds from outside. Harry observes how stiffly Riddle holds himself, even in his most vulnerable state. Like a solider, Harry thinks. Memory-Riddle frowns and huddles under the covers. A rat scurries past the bare floorboards. Downstairs, there is a wail. Riddle frowns and curls his body tighter. He is all skin and bones. The noises do not fade. Riddle suddenly sits up and with his eyes crazed and bloodshot, he roars,

Shut up!

The wails stop. The bombing does not.

A few years pass; Riddle is older and taller, his face ghastly and white by undernourishment. The war will soon be over, people say. They say this when America enters the war and when Hitler decides to invade the Soviet Union and falters during his campaign at Stalingrad. Yet fresh recruits must be dug up and orphans are expendable men for their country. The older boys leave in their rags out into the battlefield. There is no one to bid them a teary goodbye; no sweethearts weep in their absence. The matrons grow stony with each new mouth to feed. But Riddle returns, year after year, and he does not go to war. The matrons loudly whisper about duty and love, about soldiers who have died to keep ungrateful boys like Riddle alive. Riddle does not answer to such barbs but fingers caress his wand menacingly. After that, no one bothers him. Riddle does not join the children and their dinner times, does not crouch down at the dining hall. Instead he lies on his creaking bed and listens to the bombs fall, and the smells the ashes before anything else. He thinks, so this is what death would be like.

The memories fade.

The grey room: its corners sharpen and visualize from a misty smoke.

You didn’t want your last days to crumble apart like those people, Harry says.

No, I— Riddle pauses again. He shakes his head and snorts. Are you trying to play a quack to my motivations? I assure you, Harry, you will only go so far.

I try. Harry deems it safe to quirk his lips.

You see now. You have not seen war, Riddle says coldly. You have not seen people dying around you. You’ve only seen a pitiful child’s play of one.

That’s not fair, Harry immediately growls.

I’m not _fair_ , Riddle sneers. I’m stating a simple fact. Your war was nothing; you’ve certainly suffered not many losses—

Harry stands up abruptly, blood rushing to his ears.

I, he snarls, weary amusement and cordial jeers forgotten, I didn’t see people die? Fuck you, Voldemort, I’ve seen them fall, and watched you kill them, watched them die for your shitty causes—

Ah. Riddle cuts in, and his eyes glow at Harry’s brash anger. But you see, you’ve watched people die. You remember their names and commemorate them in your memory, do you not?

Harry does not know where Riddle is going with this, and frankly he does not care. He thinks with rushing fury, all the names that he still speaks in his sleep: _Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Moody, Dobby, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin, Snape_ …

Yes, of course you do, noble Harry Potter does not forget the victims who laid down their lives for him. Riddle wears a small smirk. But see, you must understand. You’re angry, and you sit here and rattle off their names. You _remember_ them all, Riddle points out, probing his mind; and Harry bares his teeth. War does not permit you to do that, Harry. Did you see men die around you in multitudes until you have failed to remember them at all? Did you see death again and again, until you ceased to remember the dead?

Harry opens his mouth, closes it.

War makes you think, Harry. Riddle says. It makes you think how insignificant we are; how unworthy we end up to be in our dying breaths. Piles and heaps of bodies scattered across a battlefield. Until the body is nothing more than meat, and the dead is rotted away by maggots. Think of that, and then. Riddle smiles, all teeth and dangerous. Think of what I had accomplished in the end.

Harry swallows. You didn’t see them die, he says.

Riddle smiles at him. Didn’t I encounter death? I assure you, I have seen it more than you can ever imagine.

Harry clenches his teeth and closes his eyes. I can’t hear any more of this. You’re madder than I gave you credit for. So you escaped that warzone and you go ahead and create another one. I’ve had enough of this.

You’re not listening—Riddle starts again, but this time Harry has had it, had enough of the smell of ash and the sounds of children crying, the vision of Tom Riddle and his skeletal frame.

I don't care to, Harry says, and with vicious determination, he thinks,

Wake up.

And so he does.

.

.

.

Night after night, his spells grow malicious and vicious. He feels the magic inside him crow and shriek inside him, and does his best to contain it. The air is thick with the residues of a sickening feel. He is slowly getting used to it. He throws curses that makes the target’s blood boil, their limbs snap, their faces contorted in agony. They practice with wooden targets, then move onto human dummies that Snape prepares for before class. Harry slashes his wand and sees them all burst, splinter, and crumble. He feels nothing. There is nothing.

“I should ask,” Snape says after a particular nasty lesson in which Harry had mastered a spell that would have the enemy’s spine crack open in half, “Is there a point for you to learn these curses? I do not relish in the thought of raising up another Dark Lord.”

“I’m not trying to be Voldemort,” Harry says.

“Do get it through that thick head of yours— _I do not care to hear the Dark Lord’s name_ ,” Snape snaps harshly. “You’re very quick to reassure me, Potter, but your capacity for the Dark Arts is less of a bumbling effort on your part than Potions. It makes me feel concerned.”

“I’m glad to know that I have your approval, sir,” Harry says dryly, and Snape curls his lips.

“The Headmaster wishes to speak with you,” Snape says. He does not look at Harry’s eyes when he says this. “He knows about these lessons. He wants to ask you.”

“Ah,” Harry says, and throws the final curse. The dummy wobbles before being engulfed in a bluish glow. The fire does not expire until there is no trace of the target, and all that is left is a stinging smell of ash and wood.

.

.

.

Sirius, he writes one morning,

How are you? I heard that they put you up in Grimmauld Place while the trial is underway.

( _Did you meet Peter, did he beseech you as he did to me, ask you for mercy that you had once refused him_ ; Harry erases those words as soon as he writes them, such musings are superfluous at best)

 School is great, Snape isn’t trying to get me expelled, but I miss you.

( _I would always miss a part of you, that death of yours you wouldn’t remember, I never quite got over it_ ; again, irrelevant).

Can I visit you there over the weekend? There’s something in that attic of yours, I’d like you to take a look if you have time to show me around.

( _It’s a Horcrux, Sirius and your younger brother was so, so brave, he did something most men couldn’t have at his age, he stood up for what he believed in and died at Voldemort’s hands—he accepted death, but it was in vain, life isn’t_ —and Harry stops, looking at the parchment covered in his messy scrawls and blots of ink; he sighs and produces out a fresh sheet and copies down every word except for the ones he really wants to say).

Can’t wait to hear from you. I hope you’re well.

Harry

.

.

.

Dumbledore does not try to pry his mind or demand his true intentions. He only smiles at Harry when he steps into the familiar office and offers him tea and biscuits. Harry declines and sits down.

Harry had expected Dumbledore to pester him with innocent, simple questions that would go along the lines of: so, Harry, how are your classes going? How is Professor Snape? Now let’s see, why would you show such interest in the curses that the school forbids you to learn? Such magic is dangerous, my boy. Could it be (and a small glint in those blue eyes, a small stroke of that white beard) that you wish to tell me something? Ho hum.

Dumbledore is such an easy man to dislike inside Harry’s mind. Harry had often wrestled with his deceased mentor and his many muddled motives years after the man’s death; he had lacked satisfying answers and so concluded that Dumbledore himself did not quite know how the war’s tide would have turned. Dumbledore had great, vague plans on how to win the war; but he lacked the details, and details, Harry soon realized, were what divided and united the people who fought the battles. There was no use to learn about Horcruxes when he did not know how to destroy them, just as it was fruitless to learn of Riddle’s childhood if he could not use it against Voldemort. He remembers the memories that Death had shown to him; Dumbledore’s folly and weakness that would condemn him to his death, his everlasting guilt of his sister and his guilty fascination of the Dark wizard Grindelwald. And so, in his mind, Dumbledore is a wizard who committed many acts in the name of the greater good, who sent Harry to his own death because Dumbledore speculated that he would come back alive, and he raised him to be kind and loving, only to let him become a martyr.

And then. He comes back and sees Dumbledore alive and does not know what to think without reverting back to the eager boy who craved the old wizard’s approval and praise.

Harry looks at his hands and waits for Dumbledore to speak.

“I was surprised when Professor Snape came by and told me that you wished to pursue additional lessons not covered at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore says benignly, “And even more surprised when Professor Snape told me that he was willing to teach you. You must understand, Harry, Professor Snape does not show such favoritism, even to his own House.”

Harry gives a small jerk of his head. He thinks, Well, that and he must be feeling guilty about my mum; doesn’t know quite how to atone himself to a time traveler who knows all his dirty secrets and perhaps more.

Dumbledore does not ask him questions, but continues on with his calm voice. “The last time you were here, Harry, you asked me about Tom Riddle. I’m afraid then I did not have quite the right answers and reassurances that you wished for. And alas, I am sorry to tell you that today would be no different. However,” and Dumbledore gives him a small twitch of his lips and takes out a very worn book out from one of his drawers. “I do have something to give you. Perhaps this will enlighten you in more ways than one.”

He slides the book towards Harry. Harry takes it, a little dumbfounded, as Dumbledore taps the cover with one of his fingers.

 _1945: The Birth and Rise of Lord Voldemort_.

“It is a curious book,” Dumbledore says slowly, “And some very shoddy scholarship work in some places, I’m sorry to say. Some outlandish theories concerning Riddle’s whereabouts. But the year after Tom Riddle left Hogwarts…well, we can only guess what had happened. This book only offers but one of such conjectures.”

Harry holds the book in his hands and tries to come up with something gratifying to say. He tries to summon up the warmth of the knowledge that Dumbledore does care for him and indulges his choices, a chance that he had once denied Riddle. He cannot; he has too many questions for the old wizard in front of him to offer him false pleasantries.

In the end Harry looks up again. He finds Dumbledore observing him with a very resigned face that is neither hostile nor warm.

“You will find, Harry,” Dumbledore says slowly, “Magic alone does not turn a person into an evil wizard. So do what you must, my boy. Experiment to your fancies and pursue your eccentric curiosities. The world is not divided into that fine line between the light and the dark. I had figured this out too late.”

It takes awhile for Harry to come to his senses to nod slowly and accept Dumbledore’s words. He wonders if Dumbledore had any regrets for that one brilliant student whom he had failed to convert and take under his wing, before it was too late.

But that would beg the question of whether the unloved Tom Riddle was malleable enough to be persuaded by Dumbledore’s vision of love and forgiveness. Such conundrums were best left untouched.

“And yes, one more thing.” Dumbledore’s face brightens momentarily, once again rummaging through his drawers. “There is something else, I should have it here somewhere…ah yes, here we go.” He beams, and brings out a very familiar piece of cloak that shimmers. “Your father left this for you when he died,” he says apologetically, “I should have given it to you sooner, but there were other things that concerned you when you last came to visit…”

Harry takes his Invisibility cloak more easily than the book, the familiar light material feeling very comfortable and promising at the tip of his fingertips. He runs a hand over the smooth fabric and hears a soft cackle and a swish of cold air; he hides a shudder.

“Mind you don’t get into too much mischief, Harry,” Dumbledore says cheerfully. Harry gives a small nod and this time, he is able to manage a smile.

He is a surprising man, Albus Dumbledore, Riddle mulls. A bundle of lies at his disposal, an emotional old fool who is too soft and doting on you…and yet.

And yet. Harry cannot help but echo the sentiment.

.

.

.

“But of course I’m going with you,” Malfoy exclaims, his eyes narrowing. Harry ignores him. “He’s a Black, isn't he? He’s my mother’s cousin, I’ll have you know. We have blood relations, and he’s a pureblood to boot.”

“He’s my godfather,” Harry says, “And I wouldn’t boast about the purity of your blood to him if I were you. He ran away from home when he was sixteen because he hated that rhetoric.”

Malfoy snorts. He glares at the cloak Harry had draped on and looks at the empty air where Harry’s body is supposed to be, and then back at Harry’s face, the only part that is visible to the eye.

“I could report you,” he grumbles.

“You could,” Harry agrees, “But you won’t.”

“Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you,” Malfoy mutters, “It’s a school weekend, I don’t see why you’d want to go all the way down to London to see your godfather in his ancestral house—there must be something down there that you want. That’s the only reason why I’d even bother to tag alone, Potter—you’re too thick to come up with a decent plan of whatever it is you’re doing.”

Harry pauses. He adjusts his cloak and wonders whether to feign nonchalance. “Come again?”

Malfoy sneers. “You really don’t think me daft, do you? You could ask your godfather to spend a nice weekend strolling about the school grounds if you missed him—but no, you’re going through all the trouble to see him at his house, even getting our Head of House to sign up a permission slip, _Really_ , Potter. Snape was in a foul mood, not that you’d have noticed, with that dumb look about you. First years are supposed to play Exploding Snap on the weekends and wait until Christmas to go home and natter about the great wonders of whatever this school offers you. That sort of rubbish.”

“But he’s under house arrest,” Harry points out, “I can’t just let him waltz in—”

“And you’re the Boy-Who-Lived who proved to the Ministry that his godfather was innocent,” Malfoy drawls. “Good god, don’t play the idiot, Potter, it aggravates me greatly. Play a Slytherin for a change. It’ll be more amusing to watch, at any rate.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, as if to convey their surroundings of dark green and silver.

“You’re not a real Slytherin, you’re a disgrace to our House,” Malfoy tells him, turning up his nose. “You’re not even using the hexes and curses that Snape is teaching you. I’d use them, if I were you. But noo, perfect Potter has to play nice with every bloody misfit running around this school and goes down to visit his godfather to do another noble deed while making sure his godfather is settling in quite nicely in his new life free of Dementors.” Malfoy pauses. “Anything else that I’ve missed?”

“Er, no, I think that’s about everything,” Harry says. “Good job, that. Follow me quite about, do you?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “You’re all grandeur and no subtlety, Potter, it doesn’t take even Weasley to find out your masterplans. Hence, the cloak.” Malfoy brings out a hand and gestures impatiently. “I’ll be wearing it on the train ride. We will go together and meet Sirius Black. You will weep a nice serenade about how nice it is to be taken care of by a proper wizarding family and we will find whatever it is that you’re looking for in the meantime. Black will be none the wiser.”

Harry stands there, a little overwhelmed. He blinks and tries to come up with a suitable rebuttal; there is none. Malfoy is apt at basic spellwork, not to mention the Dark curses that Harry is sure the other boy knows and has not yet had the chance to use. In the end, he settles for an airy retort. “Malfoy, I didn’t know you cared.”

Malfoy’s face looks pained. “I don’t, Potter,” he says stonily, “I just don’t fancy another weekend spree at the library trying to devise ways to kill Weasel and Granger while they ransack the bookshelves for your heroic visions.”

Harry simply grins at him, because the other reply that begins with, _you don’t even have to follow them along, Malfoy, no one’s forcing your hand_ , would have surely earned him a hex for his troubles.

“Well, then,” he says, and without a warning, he drapes the cloak over Malfoy’s body. Malfoy’s scowl is the last to disappear under the cloak.

“But by Salazar,” the empty air mutters, “This cloak is a bloody menace. Put a cleaning charm on it before you decide to suffocate me, won’t you?”

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in the process of re-editing and revising the previous chapters, so updates may be a bit slow. Thank you to all the readers who are patiently waiting to see how the plot develops! The timelines are messy and seem erratic, but I am really hoping to get everything under wraps. I DO know where the story is going I just don't know who's going to take a chunk out of Harry's sanity yet lol.... I just keep getting side-tracked with all the multiple interactions. And the timelines. So far there are the First Year Harry ,the present Harry, and then Riddle's timeline. Sooo....yeah. Tricky things.

The locket feels heavy in his hands.

“Is this it, then?” Malfoy says next to him. “Salazar’s locket?”

“Yes,” Harry answers slowly. He traces the engraved letter with his fingers. His hand is shaking. It is cold to the touch. There is a soul inside this locket. Waiting.

 

Sirius had greeted him at King’s Cross, balked at who he had brought along but managed a brave front nevertheless. All around, Harry counted that as a success.

Amongst the crowd of people milling about, it was easy to see Sirius, waving madly about when he saw Harry stumbling out from the train. His godfather’s face was not exuberant for long; Sirius had seen Malfoy. The happy face faltered, but regained its composure almost immediately. When Harry walked nearer, he could see how Sirius’s smile was forced as he seized up Malfoy, who looked back at Sirius with a cold look. An impressive posture on an eleven-year-old, Harry had secretly thought, and erased his musings. It wouldn’t do to continually compare Malfoy in his different timelines. He would only be confused to which one he would prefer more: a Malfoy capable of remorse or a Malfoy untainted with the sins of his future self.

 “You’re Narcissa’s son, aren’t you?” Sirius had said jovially and tightly, and he gave Harry a quizzical look but took out a ratted old book out of his jacket. “Here, we’ll get to the house by a Portkey. I would have set up the table if I knew you were bringing guests, Harry…”

“You shouldn’t have, Sirius,” Harry said, nudging Malfoy one last time to warn the other boy: behave, don’t touch nasty objects, keep your inane comments to yourself. From the way Malfoy’s lips twisted, he had gotten his message across. They touched the book and the sensation of air rippling shook his bearings; a moment later, they landed in the front hall of Grimmauld Place.

“How’d you manage to smuggle him out of Hogwarts?” Sirius asked. The hallway of Sirius’s old ancestral home was dusty and gloomy as ever, timeless and drab. It seemed that Kreacher was sulking and neglecting his household duties. It seemed that Sirius did not quite mind. “I only received word that you would come through, not…” He waved a hand vaguely towards Malfoy’s direction. “Your friend here. He _is_ your friend, isn’t he, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry said easily, because it was easy to throw answers that managed to ease everything along faster, it was easier to pretend everything was simple and true as it seemed on the surface. Malfoy gave him a sharp look for that, but Harry ignored him, craning up his head to offer Sirius a small smile. “I got dad’s old cloak with me and made him wear it.”  
“You got James’s—” Sirius shook his head a little. His laughter was more natural. “Of course you did. You’re your dad’s son all over again.” Sirius said this in a fond, soft way, as if he was half-saying those words to himself. He had a faraway look about him even as he let a warm hand touch the back of Harry’s back to steer him towards the dining room. Sirius's hand. Harry plastered his smile on his face. His heart thumped. This was horrible. He couldn’t do this. To pretend nothing was amiss as if this was just an ordinary visit with his recently freed godfather, to talk and reminisce over old school days about his dad and Sirius…

Only he could, he _must_ —and the dining room was as dark and dimly lit as ever when they entered, just like his own timeline, when he had been playing ward to Malfoy. It was even homely, a touch of familiarity that made Harry’s insides warm up. Malfoy immediately scrunched up his nose at the sight of the grim room, however, and said in a snide voice, “I thought this was a Black ancestral house.” He was clearly implying that it did not meet the standards of what a pureblood residence should look like.

Sirius threw Malfoy a sharp look and gave Harry an exasperated one. “Kreacher doesn’t fancy sweeping up the floors and tidying the house,” he said roughly, “And I don’t blame him. Nasty place this is, I forgot just how much. I thought I’d seen the last of it when…” And Sirius trailed off, his face clouded and grey. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Kreacher!” he bellowed.

A small pop; Kreacher appeared in his rags and shriveled face. Harry suppressed down a start when Kreacher swerved his head to give Harry a look of great dislike. It was a far cry from the worried face of the elf Harry knew: Master Harry must eat more, Kreacher’s voice rang inside his mind. Kreacher nagging and Malfoy sulking. But this Kreacher dismissed him almost instantly, choosing to bow to Malfoy, who looked at Kreacher with a look akin to horror and revulsion.

“Don’t get any ideas, Kreacher,” Sirius said tersely, “You’re setting the table for one more guest. Nothing to sway your dirty little head over of it.”

“Sirius you shouldn’t—” Harry began, and then stopped. He mustered up the small smile he had been wearing and pulled out a chair hesitantly. Kreacher snapped his fingers and was soon gone, not even bothering to acknowledge Harry’s presence.

“Filthy house elf,” Sirius muttered, “It should have died with my old mum…but no use banging up old ghosts. How’ve you been, Harry? You’re welcome to sit wherever you like,” Sirius added politely, when it was clear that Malfoy would stand there with his sneer unless he was asked to sit. “Kreacher will set the table as soon as you feel comfortable.”

“I doubt that’ll ever happen,” Malfoy muttered, but obliged, yanking out an empty chair with a petty force that made Harry roll his eyes. He sat in his own chair gingerly and smiled at Sirius, who chose to ignore Malfoy’s look and his atrocious lack of manners. He gave Harry a worried and fond look, and it was such a parental face that Harry had to blink several times to get his bearings straight. “So, Harry?” Sirius asked.

Harry swallowed. He shook his head a little and replied easily that he was fine, classes were going great, the professors were very kind to him (“Even Snape,” Harry hastened to add, and Sirius snorted at the sheer incredulity that Snape would be anything but nice) and his friends were all swell, even young Malfoy here.

“I used to know your parents,” Sirius said neutrally, but his eyes flashed momentarily, not quite succeeding in hiding the animosity against Death Eaters who have recanted, “And Narcissa, of course, we used to play as children. You remind me of her, somewhat.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “People always say that I take after my father,” he said formally. _People who are sane and well-respected_ , he seemed to add mentally. Sirius must have caught onto the unspoken insult behind Malfoy’s words, and his reply was somewhat cooler.

“I meant in temperament. Narcissa always used to hate this house, couldn’t stand how gloomy it was, and I don’t blame her—” Sirius gave out a small bark. “My mum was never known for her hosting skills. It’s always been like this—very drab. Perfect for little purebloods to run amok over this place and practice their little hexes and spells.” Sirius’s smile turned sharp at the edges. “I supposed you’d know them too?” he asked casually to Malfoy.

Malfoy gave a stiff nod, and slanted a look at Harry, which he ignored by ducking his head. “Potter here knows more, though, I’d reckon,” Malfoy muttered. And he threw out a remark Harry had not been expecting. _Damn Malfoy and his sneaky ways._ “Knew how to hold his own in Slytherin.”

“Can you?” Sirius turned and blinked at Harry, who was glaring down at the floor to restrain himself from casting a Silencing Charm on Malfoy. “Harry, I thought you were raised by—well, you’re a natural, aren’t you? Beating the purebloods at their own game—”

“He learned it before he came to Hogwarts,” Malfoy interrupted, just as Harry was about to say that yes, he had been a natural prodigy and wasn’t that brilliant, but no worries Sirius, he wouldn’t dare conjure up hexes and curses like his housemates, “Which is why he got sorted into Slytherin. We only take the best and the brightest. The most cunning.”

“That’ll be Ravenclaw,” Harry said under his breath, but he already saw Sirius’s face shift and darken, as if living out an unpleasant memory. “And besides, it’s nothing much. I read a few books before the term started, flicked my wand around a bit…”

He was stammering, trying to backpedal about where he must have caught up his brilliant magic and wielded it about, and he cursed his lack of foresight; he should have made his story more solid, gave out a convincing backstory that would not have led to Malfoy smirking at him victoriously. _What’s he so happy about?_ Harry thought crossly. _This wasn’t a part of what we talked about—chat for a bit with Sirius, try not to provoke him, cajole Kreacher and find the bloody locket._

“Well,” Sirius said slowly, “Slytherins are known for that bit. They threw the best hexes and curses back in my day, too.”

“That doesn’t mean I do that,” Harry said exasperatedly, throwing Malfoy a dirty look, “I don’t like hurting people, not unless they deserve it.”

“I know,” Sirius said kindly, and patted Harry’s hand in an awkward manner. “It’s nothing personal Harry—I don’t have the happiest memories of Slytherins and pureblood off-springs.”

“Pity,” Malfoy said.

Before Sirius could have replied that with a cold remark, Kreacher reappeared and fussed over Malfoy’s table settings and cutlery, and snapped his fingers for the food. A pile of warm dishes popped onto the dining table, and Sirius gave Malfoy a grim smile and gestured to the table. “Please,” he said, “Do help yourself.”

The meal turned out to be a tedious affair after that. Sirius darted him glances when he thought Harry was not looking, and Harry was busy glaring over at Malfoy over the pile of dishes. Malfoy was the only one who was contented. He certainly made his face pull out an unmistakable expression of disgust as he cut up his meat and dipped his bread in olive oil and smeared it in butter. All the while Harry brooded, wondering how to talk to his godfather who was becoming increasingly twitchy. _He ate rats for you, Harry, while he was on the run, remember our fourth year? He still had time to give us advice about Death Eaters and the like_ , Ron’s voice echoed inside his head. Hermione joined in with her chiding, _He doesn’t care what House you are, he cares for you, he died for you—_

No. Not that. Harry cut a small piece of meat, his hands unsteady. He swallowed and looked over at Malfoy, who was laboring over at the pile of steaming vegetables, and turned his head over to Sirius, who was still darting glances at Harry.

“The hat gave me a choice,” Harry said quietly. “Slytherin or Gryffindor. I chose to go there, Sirius.”

He laid out his cards on the table to a man who had hated Slytherin all through his adolescence, who had run away and shunned his family over pureblood and Slytherin values, who had his own brother defect to a side that Sirius had fervently hated, who had suffered for the war raged by the values he had abhorred and the House he had denounced. And here Harry was, freeing him from the abysmal prison that had been Azkaban, only to tell him that his dead friend’s son had chosen a path Sirius had always thought was wrong and evil in absolute terms. What a stupid idea. Harry could imagine Sirius’s eyes narrow, could hear the drawl that Sirius never turned at him: so you’re just like Snivellus, then?

It was always easy to mock and vilify the dead. The dead cannot offer their own defenses, and he only has his batch of wispy memories to remember them by.

Alive, everyone becomes more complicated, for they speak in their own voices.

Sirius met his eyes and tried to read something inside Harry. What, Harry did not know, because Sirius’s face was grave and heavy as Harry had never seen it as, but there must have been something there. Sirius did not recoil away, did not remark about how Snape had once known many curses even before he came to the school, just as Harry had known them. Sirius only gave him a soft smile that bespoke of sadness.

He must be thinking of James.

“Where the cunning goes to become the greatest, eh?” Sirius murmured, “Ambition at its finest. You’d have made quite a Marauder, Harry. That is—your dad and I, we used to be great friends, along with Remus, and—”

Sirius stopped, his eyes closing to hide his fury or bereavement, Harry did not quite know, but Sirius plunged on, “Well, at any rate. Your dad would have been proud.”

Harry nodded and looked down at his plate. They had finished the rest of the meal in silence and Sirius had been lost with his own past and thoughts. Harry had left it at that, and Malfoy had not offered any more of his sniping comments. It was the best Harry could have hoped for.

And after, Harry suggested cheerfully (with the full persona of an eleven-year-old he never had been) that he would like to see a real wizard house (Malfoy had balked at those very words, muttered how uncouth the Savior of the Wizarding World was, Merlin help them all) and trailed alongside an enthusiastic Sirius, who showed him the best parts of Grimmauld Place. Sirius pointedly passed over the library and the kitchen, while allowing Harry to peek inside his rumpled bedroom, and while Sirius’s back was turned, Harry signaled over to Malfoy and mouthed, _now_.

Malfoy had made a face, but complied.

Harry could get used to this, Malfoy listening to his orders with a sulk. He bit at a smirk and dutifully followed Sirius’s footsteps while Malfoy slunk away in the shadows, in search of Kreacher.  

(In the train, Harry had briefly told Malfoy of his plan and Malfoy had scoffed at him. This had never deterred Harry and he merely repeated the words for clarity.

“I’m not deaf, Potter, I’m just appalled at how stupid you can be,” Malfoy said. “The elf won’t recognize my orders, he’s loyal to one master—”

“A master he doesn’t particularly like,” Harry said patiently. Malfoy gave him a disgusted look of wonder that asked just how could he be so sure, but Malfoy must have decided when to pick his battles and didn’t push. “And the elf is serving the House of Black. You’re a Black from your mother’s side. He’ll be more attuned to your orders than, say, mine.”

“You never told me what that locket was,” Malfoy muttered. “If this is all some wild goose chase, Potter, I would have been better off looking up books about immortal stones and rotting fairy tales.”

“It’s Salazar’s locket,” Harry said. He had the rare pleasure of seeing Malfoy’s eyes widen in surprise. “And…something a bit more. But yeah, that’s why we need it.”)

 

And now, at nighttime, when Sirius had retreated to his own bedroom and left them to their own devices, he holds the familiar locket in his hands. It is sinister against the flickering candlelight, and even Malfoy is mindful of his words next to him, content to having confirmed its existence with a simple question. Harry strokes the hard metal, his thoughts whirling. He should open it now. The locket had not been worn by anyone, surely it would not project his worst fears, his darkest desires—but beyond that, Harry doesn’t quite know what to expect.

He opens his mouth. Hesitates.

Malfoy is watching him closely, and ventures out a hiss. “So you know how to open it, then?” he whispers. The house is eerie and silent. Harry nods slightly. “This isn’t just only a locket, is it? You wouldn’t have just come all the way down to this place for Salazar’s treasure.”

Harry doesn’t know how to reply to such a knowing statement. He opts for the truth. “No,” he says, “It’s also a Horcrux.”

Malfoy lets out a slow breath of air and Harry turns his head to look at him. Even in the candlelight, Harry can see Malfoy’s face paling in fear. “You know about it, then?” Harry asks.

“You’re forgetting who my father served, Potter,” Malfoy replies back with a terse note, “Under the Imperius, of course.”

“Course.” Harry turns back to study the locket. He imagines he hears soft laughter. But perhaps that is just inside his mad head. Better now than never. He brushes the slit of the locket, where it is tightly enclosed. He opens his mouth and hisses.

_Open._

The locket shudders in his hand, and clicks. Harry sets the locket on the floor and waits. There is a tense silence, and the locket snaps open.

The twin windows inside the locket gleams, and Harry thinks he sees a flash of red—but immediately the room is enshrouded in fog and smoke, and it must be a testament of all his nightmares and visions, because Harry has his wand out as a reflexive response, his thoughts more exasperated than frightened. He thinks, _not again, Riddle, we’ve been over this._

Have we really? Riddle voice answers, from somewhere beyond the fog. It sounds highly amused.

And the fog thickens, until the bedroom is no longer visible; Malfoy makes a small noise and straightens up. Around them, there is only a cloudy grey of smoke, until Harry cannot be too sure that they are still safe with Sirius across the hall. A few steps away from them the smoke thins, and a small clearing is formed. Riddle emerges out of the greyness that surrounds them; he solidifies, his young, handsome face carefully shaped from the smoke, and his glinting eyes and sneering mouth complete the picture.

Harry draws in a breath. Besides him, Malfoy is frozen and does not speak a word about this new intruder.

Riddle is the first to speak.

“Harry,” Riddle says. His voice is pleasant and low. He has not bothered to summon his wand. “It’s a nice change, seeing you out of your dreams. Although,” and here Riddle narrows his eyes at Malfoy, who takes an involuntary step back. “I didn’t expect young Malfoy to attend to you here. Some things never quite change, do they?” Riddle smiles, his eyes sharp and bestial.

Harry points his wand at Riddle’s direction. “So you do remember,” he says. It is not a question. “You’ve never met me before. But you still—”

“Know you as my nemesis, vanquisher of the Dark Lord and the Master of Death?” Riddle laughs, and the smoke floats lazily around them. “Yes, of course I do. A part of you lives inside me, Harry. I thought you had that part figured out. You have not rid yourself of that taint. Where you go, I must.”

“Potter,” Malfoy whispers. He sounds frantic. “What is going on here?”

“The locket,” Harry says, not taking his eyes of Riddle, who twists his lips into what can only be read as dismissive disdain, “was one of Voldermort’s Horcruxes.”

“Is,” Riddle corrects him mildly, while Malfoy lets out a little gasp. “Really Harry, as much as I detest the Malfoy heir, he was far more amusing when he was spitting fire over your dead honor. This child is such a weakling, is he not?”

“And so am I, in this body,” Harry says easily. He catches onto how Riddle’s eyes are studying Malfoy with cold mirth, and steps between Malfoy’s vision and Riddle’s reach. Malfoy gives out a small choke from behind him.

“Potter, what are you—”

“Are you protecting that child?” Riddle looks delighted and disgusted at once, his lips curling into a full sneer. “I thought you have come to _destroy_ me, and here you are, stepping back into your false noble deeds and heroics once again…” Riddle laughs. It is the cold laughter from his dreams, the sound that echoes inside his mind long after the laughter has ceased. “Do you think you can kill me, Harry Potter?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Riddle, it never suited you when you were alive,” Harry snaps. He makes an impatient swish of his wand.

( _It seems that focusing isn’t one of your strong suits, Potter,_ Snape’s sneering voice fills inside his head. _A pity, that many of the spells you hope to master requires a strict discipline. It means that you must keep a calm demeanor at all times._

 _What gave it off?_ Harry asks in his memory, his eyes trained to the wooden dummy in front of him.

 _Your hand is shaking._ Snape gestures to his wand hand lazily. _Your eyes are twitching and your mouth is tense. Shall I go on? You wish to hit me with the spell, no doubt._

 _I’d miss._ Harry mutters.

 _You would,_ Snape agrees, sounding quite smug. _And you’d do best to keep your emotions at bay._

_I would, if you would just stop harping up about my dad—_

_Shall I relive old memories about dear Lily Potter, then?_ Snape cuts in coldly. _I have no wish to do so. We are all much better, I daresay, when I am insulting your dead father._

Harry narrows his eyes and does not reply. A fire rages inside him; rage, and perhaps disappointment, that Snape was the same as he had ever been, petty and vicious, unwilling to let go past grudges and refusing to see Harry beyond his messy hair. He harnesses the rage inside him. Hurls his wand and strikes out, his aim precise and fast.

The wooden dummy bursts into a bluish flame and burns. No ash is left in the wake of its destruction.

Snape watches him, his beady eyes set in a hard gleam. _Close enough_ , he murmurs. He sounds quite satisfied with himself.

Harry blinks at him. He says slowly, _did you just provoke me on purpose?_

Snape curls his lip in a most unpleasant manner. _Your face is telling, Potter_ , he says coolly. _Your enemies will be all too ready to use your emotions for their disposal. It may one day lead you to your untimely death._

And then, where we will be?)

The spell needed an unhealthy amount of rage, Harry had learned. And intent. Each Dark spell Snape had taught him over the past few weeks could not be completed with a savage rage that Harry did not often feel even on his worst days. The years led Harry to be unfeeling and apathetic to almost everything—he did not have a desire to hurt others or to save the world. The fight had gone out of him with Teddy’s death. And yet here he stands again once more, young and raging, his wand pointing at his old enemy resurrected, and the rage comes towards him naturally. Perhaps it comes with the knowledge that he may change something. Rage from Snape’s old taunts about this father, rage of Riddle’s mocking and belittling tone, rage that he could not seem to save everything fast enough—the darkness rushes towards him, and Harry opens his mouth and snarls.

“ _Caerulignis_.”

A blue flame bursts and surrounds Riddle’s body, setting the younger Dark Lord on fire. Riddle does not scream, but he does snarl, his eyes widening in surprise first and narrowing in immense rage the second. Malfoy lets out a little shriek, and Harry will have his fun taunting him about it later. But for now, he waves his wand once more, aiming to increase the bluish glow flaming from Riddle, making sure that there would be nothing remaining of Riddle’s soul and locket—

But Riddle is faster. With a wave of his hand the blue flame disappears and only his white face shows any evidence of his cold fury.

“You’ve been kept busy, I see,” Riddle says. His voice no longer holds the mocking amusement that he had often taunted Harry with. “But do you think you can hurl Dark curses at me and succeed? Your attempts are weak, Potter.” Riddle spits out his name like a foul thing, and the smoke shifts; Riddle reaches out for his wand at last. He points it towards Harry. His dark eyes glitter strangely, and Harry is somewhat struck by how…familiar they look. It is anger, yes, but it is not the mindless and impersonal fury of Voldemort. It is a personal vengeance, now directed at Harry. There is a delicious shiver traveling up his spine. “Let’s have a proper demonstration, shall we? Obscure Dark curses would be more of my specialty than yours.”

“You can’t kill me, Riddle,” Harry says calmly. “Or—I guess you can, if you must. Have a go at it, then, will you?” And what possesses him to spread both arms invitingly he cannot say; he only knows that he is feeling reckless and brash, his head thumping with adrenaline, and he truly does think for a moment that he is invincible. Perhaps it is because he sees Riddle’s eyes and they seem so human. There is anger and resentment, but it is yet void of madness and mania. It is a human boy, and Harry thinks, Riddle as a human can easily be defeated and vanquished.

Riddle only sneers. “There are other ways to destroy a person, Potter, or has Dumbledore taught you nothing?” And Riddle snaps out a word Harry does not quite catch.

A blunt force knocks his off his chest and Harry staggers; a thin, dark cord materializes out from the air and wraps around his neck. It all but takes a moment; Harry pulls back, but the rope snaps in place and tightens its hold.

 

Harry chokes, Malfoy screams, Riddle laughs.

 

 _Fuck, Harry._ Ron’s voice is exasperated beyond belief. Harry lurches forward, gags. _It’s still Voldemort we’re talking about, what the fuck is your problem? Just because he looks human—_

 _Potter obviously has poor standards concerning the Dark Lord_ , a sneering voice echoes back (Malfoy? Harry thinks blearily, fuck, I don’t need you inside my head right now) _Why should he stop now?_

 _Harry_ , and this is Hermione, her voice of reason that does not give him time to defend himself, _He’s not you, you’re nothing alike—you saw him in an orphanage and what he went through was terrible, but he’s still a monster, you know that—_

 _Awfully sure about me, are you?_ Riddle intones coldly, and his mind lurches, there is whiteness around him, black spots around the edges.

Harry scrabbles to free the bindings away from his neck with his hands, but they touch at a strange emptiness. He only claws at his skin. And yet the pressure around his windpipe tightens. He feels his eyes widen. He cannot breathe.

Somewhere, he hears Malfoy screaming.

Poor Malfoy, he also hears. He is seeing you die quite often, as of late. You shouldn’t do that to the pitiful boy. He has no one now, does he?

It’s partly your fault, Harry wants to spit out spitefully, but the lack of air makes his head dizzy and light.

The voices are a cacophony of sounds. And then—

Nothing.

.

.

.

He paces around the confinements of his cell, his footsteps ringing loudly around him. The screams never stop. The voices never cease.

This cell once held your parents, pity you didn’t come along with them, Malfoy, they sneer. Afterwards, they all have a good laugh over it, the Malfoys, how far they have fallen, how utterly fitting it was. He does not fight the jeering of the crowd. He only stares bleakly around his surroundings, his mouth an unhappy line.

Harry floats around in the subspace of what must be Draco Malfoy’s mind, shifting through the memories that are foreign and familiar to him at once. Malfoy on a broomstick, Malfoy in his garden chased by peacocks, Malfoy tucked into bed with his bedtime stories, Malfoy in his small formal robes and standing erect and proud next to his father…

Malfoy’s childhood, Harry realizes. Malfoy’s eyes are blank and yet his mind is whirling about, reenacting old memories, reliving past glories. His footsteps are precise, clank-thud-clank, against the stone floors, and the beating of his heart is also a steady beat, thump-thump-thump, as Malfoy fails to sit still and chooses to walk around his room, his face immobile. He does not look at the Dementors gliding in front of the bars. Inside his head, Malfoy keeps his sanity afloat.

When he speaks out at last, his voice comes out as a harsh whisper. It is a name that Malfoy speaks like a curse.

Potter, he spits.

Harry floats around Malfoy’s mind and feels the rest of torrid emotions:

_Potter, you can’t be dead, you’re an imbecile who never dies, look what happened to the Dark Lord, look what happened to you after—people don’t just fall down and stop breathing, you can’t be dead and I can’t be in this place, this is madness, Potter, you were always the sore thing in my life, nothing ever goes right with you around, why couldn’t you let me be, bloody Harry fucking Potter and his knack for saving everything broken and fallen, you should have thrown me to the wolves when the war was over, they wanted me to hang, Potter, at least then I could have stayed with my parents in this cursed cell all those years ago, at least I could have seen them and died at their bedside, you didn't have to save me, I could have gone to hate you in peace even after everything, I could have thought you a self-righteous hero, but no, instead you had to make your fucking sacrifices by taking me under your wing yet again, it came a little too late, don’t you think, and damn you, Potter, fuck you, you utter nitwit, you blasted idiot, my parents are dead and so you better be fucking alive—_

Merlin, Malfoy, Harry thinks, breathe.

Malfoy’s thoughts skid to a halt. For a moment there is peace. Then a wry, saner voice echoes out. And now I have Potter inside my head. Isn’t that just fitting.

I’m not dead, Harry reasons. He tries to reach out and touch the outer edges of Malfoy’s mind. I’m not—

You sound sentient. You sound like Potter. Merlin, I’m truly going mad.

I’m not dead, Harry insists stubbornly. He pauses. Although, maybe you’re right about the mad part. Maybe I’m the one going mad. What the hell am I doing inside your mind?

That was the exact question I asked a moment ago, Potter, Malfoy echoes dryly. At least Malfoy is not on the verge of breaking down.

This isn’t the first time it happened.

No? What—me using my own head as an echo-chamber with an annoying scarhead who refuses to die?

You thought me dead, Harry gently reminds him. And I’m here to tell you that I’m not. That and well—he frowns. I don’t know how I got here.

Color me surprised.

You’re not helping Malfoy, I left you alone with a Horcrux Riddle—well, the younger version of you, anyway—

“This is madness,” Malfoy says aloud to himself, and shakes his head. His mind echoes the same sentiment.

Madness, Potter, Tom Riddle is dead and you killed his sorry Horcruxes years ago.

It’s a long story. Harry finds it in his voice to be wry. One that I will be telling you later when you get out of here.

If I get out.

When. Harry’s voice is firm. I haven’t visited you yet, have I?

You’re dead, Potter, the Aurors told me as such. What do you mean, you haven’t visited me yet? You would have done so long before if you were alive—

I’m alive, Harry murmurs. Just. Hovering. I haven’t woken up yet, then. I will soon.

The Aurors—

Want you to think that I’m dead. And when did you believe in everything your enemies ever told you?

Malfoy’s head stays stubbornly silent. Harry sighs.

What I want to know, Harry thinks, is why I would be inside your head in the first place. Talking to you.

 

Yes, a cold voice, neither his nor Malfoy’s, echoes back, I have been wondering that for quite a while myself.

 

It is then he remembers,

 

I cannot breathe.

 

.

.

.

A cacophony of sounds and—

Nothing.

Whiteness.

A meadow.

 

Oh, Riddle says. It’s you again.

Harry blinks.

I should have known you’d come back. Well, don’t just stand there. Riddle’s voice is imperious and obnoxious. Come help me hang this rabbit.

Harry steps forward warily.

What is it with you and your obsession with rabbits, he says. The last one was mangled, and this one is also…dead.

This is Billy Stubbs’s rabbit, Riddle says dismissively, as if Harry should know better than to ask him about his plans. It’s not an obsession. Billy is just a crybaby, him and his fascination with these creatures. Stupid things. Stupid baby.

And you want to hang the rabbit from the rafters.

Yes. Riddle is hunched over, tying the dead rabbit’s forepaws tightly together. Harry watches how those nimble fingers move for a minute.

Where did you learn that? Harry finally asks. He should return his mind to other pressing matters, he knows, but somehow his mind is utterly fixated on how such tiny fingers could move with such precision.

I learned it from a book. How would you learn anything otherwise?  Riddle snaps his head up to glare at Harry. Riddle’s eyes are not glowing red, only flashing in irritation as any child is wont to do from time to time. _Not a monster yet._

Really. Harry says. He is baffled and amused. He touches his scar absentmindedly. And do you…like to read?

There’s nothing else to do, Riddle replies tersely. Then, after another beat of silence, the younger boy answers, Yes. It helps me take my mind off other things.

And you learned how to kill a rabbit in your books?

And how to tie one. And how to hang a dead one. Riddle goes back to tightening the knots. But not about the things I can do.

Things?

Things. Riddle gives him yet another scornful look. Things that you can do as well, come to think of it. Riddle ventures out the last part carefully and too casually, as if he thought of the idea just a second ago. Harry isn’t fooled.

Ah. Harry smiles. Liked my fire, did you?

Riddle immediately turns down his lips and sneers. It wasn’t _normal,_ if that’s what you’re going for.

Would you like to see it again? Harry inquires politely. He had the spell at the ready. What would happen if he threw the ball of fire at the child? He would burst into ash and return to the ground. A floating debris. Riddle would become nothing, not even a trace of his bones to remember him by. His hands curl into fists.

No, Riddle decides. Other things. Come. And this child who barely reaches up to his shoulders, beckons him to come closer with his finger and proceeds to hiss a similar command to his snake. The snake slithers out, and Harry walks closer to the boy.

You shouldn’t mangle any more rabbits, you know.

That idiot deserved it.

Nevertheless. Harry attempts a smile. It isn’t…nice.

Riddle widens his eyes at that, and lets out a sheer bark of incredulity. Nice? He repeats. He chokes on his own amusement again. Of course it’s not nice. Why would anyone want to be nice in this godforsaken place?

Harry has no answer to that.

How did you know my name? Riddle demands suddenly.

Harry keeps his smile fixated. It feels horribly awkward. Lucky guess.

You knew me even before you met me. You knew how to find me. Riddle narrows his eyes. Does this have to do with—the thing?

Magic, Harry says wearily. He wonders just how many timelines he can wreck before he returns back to his own timeline to find everything had been turned into an alternate nightmarish reality. It should have been Dumbledore, with his pleasant ho-hums, meeting with Tom in his drab little room, setting his wardrobe on fire and making Tom howl, telling Tom about Hogwarts and magic while warning him to be a nice, polite boy…

And yet here Harry is.

Magic, Riddle whispers. His voice is tinged with wonder. Yes, I thought something like that…magic…no wonder I couldn't find it in those ratty books, it couldn’t have been there…

You don’t sound very surprised, Harry observed.

Hardly. Riddle’s voice sounds gleeful and greedy. I always knew I was special; this doesn’t come off as a huge surprise, on the contrary—

Riddle seems to bask in this new knowledge, now that his strange power had a name, and he blinks up at the sky, enrapt at something he is processing inside his head, before he turns over to Harry and studies him.

And you can do magic too.

Yes.

Are you any good? Riddle demands.

Somewhat.

Riddle’s lips twist. Prove it, he challenges.

 _I could set you on fire_ , Harry thinks. Instead, he sighs and waves a hand. The rabbit bursts into flames. Riddle steps back instantly, and the snake rears his head and hisses.

You could have warned me, Riddle snaps.

Harry shrugs.

The rabbit burns and the smell of flesh is nauseating and Harry wants to puke, but if he is true to himself, at least he can imagine that this is Riddle’s flesh and Riddle’s death he is staging, instead of an innocuous rabbit. Billy is a dunderhead, Harry decides, watching Riddle’s rapt face. Trying to provoke a child with such eyes.

Beautiful, Riddle whispers. His eyes shine brightly. It holds the voice of a fanatic.

 

A voice hisses,

Is it fun, combing through my childhood memories and standing by my younger self?

The voice is more amused this time around, however, alit with mockery that was absent in Malfoy’s mindscape, and Riddle’s older voice coos at him.

Tell me, Potter, is it _exhilarating_ , seeing me as a child and knowing what I am to become? Riddle laughs. Perhaps you wish to kill me. Perhaps you want to save me.

He is too tired to play games inside his mind.

No, he replies. Maybe I just want to understand.

 

He tries to take a deep breath—

and finds that he cannot.

 

.

.

.

A cacophony of sounds and—

Nothing.

Blackness.

Voices.

 

Your son is a foul cretin Death Eater scum, I had no business letting him near Harry, I should have known, blood doesn’t lie, Malfoy, and—DON’T TOUCH HIM, YOU—

Sirius, he thinks. He tries to open his eyes but his lids are too heavy.

Touch my son, Black, and I assure you, you will face dire consequences. A soft voice laced with malice. An old familiar voice that once threatened his life. Lucius Malfoy.

YOUR SON KILLED HARRY! Sirius roared. WITH WHAT FOUL MAGIC I DON’T CARE TO GUESS—

Black, as tempting as it may be, try to stop acting like a mongrel. Snape, sneering. Potter is breathing. Malfoy did not have his wand about. They were tempering with Dark Artifacts, not testing out Mister Malfoy’s superb knowledge of the Dark Arts…

Just like you to defend your old friends yet again, eh, Snape? Sirius spits. I got rid of the last Dark objects lying about in that filthy house, there’s no way Harry could have—

Harry tries to croak something. Sirius, stop. Sirius, where is the locket? Sirius, Sirius, stop jumping to conclusions, that’s what got you killed last time, you and me both.

I don’t know what you were doing, sneaking out with Potter on a school weekend, Draco. Lucius again, now his voice holding cold disdain and a reprimand. I taught you better than that. Clearly—

Clearly, your son here is a terrible influence on my godson, letting Harry faint dead away while he’s too busy shrieking off his head—

Clearly, Lucius’s voice cuts in coldly, we have different reasons for reaching the same conclusions. An understandable mistake.

A mistake!

Black, Snape’s voice snaps. Stop your inane blabbering. He’s waking up.

Harry takes this as a cue to open his eyes.

He’s in the hospital wing. The white walls, the soft bed sheets, the eyes peering at him. Everything is all very familiar.

I should stop doing this, Harry thinks morosely.

Riddle hums. If you hadn’t tried to kill our Horcrux—

Your Horcrux, Harry snarls.

My Horcurx, then, you wouldn’t be swooning left and right. You should have kept that locket, instead of aggravating my soul. Really, Harry. Riddle tsks. You never quite learn anything; it gets very irritating at times.

“Harry,” Sirius says, breaking off his conversation with Riddle, “ _Harry._ You can’t keep doing that.”

“Let the boy sit up,” Snape says coolly, and Sirius throws him a dark look at that.

“Don’t tell me how to attend to my godson, you—”

Harry does not bother to listen to more of Sirius’s insults. He has already found himself locked in a stare with none other than Lucius Malfoy.

“Mister Potter,” Lucius says softly. “How nice of you to join us in the land of living.”

“That’s not a joke, Malfoy!” Sirius snarls, and Lucius’s lips curl distastefully. But Harry does not register in that cold disdain, or even the older man’s open animosity; he only observes how young and alive Lucius Malfoy is. He sees the eyes of a living Lucius but only can think of the end to come. He is reminded of Draco Malfoy’s sorrows at the loss of his parents. He had comforted the other boy with empty words and a sad resignation. It is that same emotion he feels now. He wonders about his emptiness at this crude observation. There is no desperate clawing and roaring of his heart: _I must save him. I must save them all._ There is nothing.

He does not wish to save Lucius Malfoy.

The thought strikes him as alarming, then a moment later, it comforts him. The older Malfoy had chosen his sides long before Harry had been born; he had dug his own grave and he would lie upon it in his dying days, and Draco Malfoy may weep and curse him all he liked, but by Merlin and Salazar, he does not have it in him to save this man.

Those are old, ancient wounds, long ago and buried, but he still remembers a diary, and a young girl who once desperately loved him, who opened the Chambers and nearly died for it; and then, he remembers the cold, foreboding air of the Department of Mysteries, and the voice of the older man vile and unforgiving as he went about the task his master had set for him, a quest that would end with Sirius’s death, and he cannot forget, he would not forgive.

Lucius can work up his own redemption.

So he tilts his head and looks past the older man and his eyes involuntarily meets with another pale, withdrawn face.

“Draco?” he asks. His voice is raspy. “You’re okay, then?”

He uses the first name deliberately, and waits for Malfoy to figure it out: play friends, Malfoy, pretend nothing is amiss, if you’re not sore about me leaving you behind to clean up the mess I’ve made, that is; you know I didn’t mean to, but it seems you’ve managed to somehow succeeded in taming that locket-Riddle all on your own, so if you can somehow reply back in a casual, friendly manner…

Malfoy jerks his head a little and nods sharply. “Just a bump,” he mutters. And then, with a dramatic narrowing of his eyes that Harry (and perhaps Lucius) knows is fake, he says, “I’ve been worried about you, Po—er. Harry.” He winces, as if there had been a terrible insult done unto him.

Lucius looks at his son suspiciously, then turns his attention to Harry once again.

“He suffered a shock,” he says smoothly. “As I am sure you did, Mister Potter. Nothing good can come out of pressing the issue anymore—” Sirius growls under his breath “—unless you do wish me to press charges, Black, and file you away to the Ministry for negligence and misuse of Dark Artifacts?”

“No,” Harry says immediately, and he sits up, his eyes glaring at Lucius. He lets his hostility show. “It wasn’t Sirius; he didn’t have anything to do with—”

“—The spell,” Malfoy interjects loudly, and Harry looks at him, surprised. “I thought the wardrobe was rattling, but it was a false alarm, the house elf swore he cleaned it up beforehand, but I guess he was wrong, you know how stupid house-elves are, father…”

“Quite,” Lucius says mildly. Sirius scowls but does not rush to defend Kreacher’s poor housekeeping skills. “I’m glad you made such admirable…associates, Draco, but perhaps this is a lesson in caution.” Lucius tilts his head towards Harry. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Come, Draco.”

And before anyone can counter anything otherwise, Lucius Malfoy turns and walks out of the hospital wing. Malfoy is more faltering in his steps, his eyes darting between Harry and his father before giving Harry a sharp nod and follows in the wake of his father’s footsteps. Sirius sneers at them both before shifting his glare towards Harry.

“There was no wardrobe incident,” he says sullenly.  

“No,” Harry agrees.

“So it was Malfoy—”

“It was _not_ ,” Harry starts, and rubs his eyes. His head hurt. “It was an accident. I’m sorry, Sirius, it wouldn’t happen again. I thought—”

“There was something Malfoy was holding,” Sirius says, and Harry takes care to not take his hands off his eyes. “A…trinket of some sort. I thought he was using it on you. He was screaming. It must’ve not gone the way he wanted it to, but you—Harry, you weren’t breathing. Again. Until you were, but.” Sirius’s voice is pleading. “I should have known that something was up when you asked to visit me while you were in Hogwarts, but I was too—excited.” Sirius stops talking and sighs. He sounds broken. Harry hates himself.

“I did want to visit you, Sirius.” His voice is very small. He wants Sirius to believe him. “You’re my godfather. Of course I—”

“Black, the boy pressed for your freedom while the entire Wizarding World chose to happily label you as a mass murderer for eleven years,” Snape says sharply, and Harry jerks back wildly. He had forgotten that Snape was there. “If you’re doubting Potter’s motives for visiting your house, when he didn’t even have to believe in you to begin with, I can only despair of your non-existing intellect.”

Sirius snaps out of his gloom and only gapes at Snape. Snape is wearing a very nasty grimace.

“This is utter sentimental rubbish,” Snape sneers. “If you’re quite done fussing over the boy, leave us. I have some things I wish to discuss with Potter. And a detention.”

Sirius blinks. “You can’t give him detention,” he says slowly. “Harry almost died.”

“And I am his Head of House, and will see fit to give him detention when he’s acting like a mindless Gryffindor,” Snape says nastily. “If you have a complaint, file it with the Headmaster. As for now, go back to your hovel, Black. Potter is fine. He must be, if he’s willing to engage you in nonsensical reassurances.”

“I’ll firecall you, Sirius,” Harry adds hastily, when he sees that Sirius is not relenting, “And—I _am_ sorry. For ruining your guest room. And for messing about in things we shouldn’t have been. And—”

“Nearly getting killed?” Sirius asks, but he does not sound angry any longer. He offers Harry a wry smile. A temporary peace offering.

“And that.” Harry manages up a smile. “I don’t, though. Getting killed isn’t really what I’m known for.” So you’ll have to trust me to keep us both alive, he tries to say. But he is not sure how well Sirius knows him enough to read behind the lines.

Sirius shakes his head. Sirius keeps up his smile and nods, turning away to walk out of the hospital wing. Harry watches his back and thinks with fervent madness that was not there before: I must save him, I must keep him alive, I must.

As if Sirius’s life could wash away all his past failures and deaths from a different life.

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Snape does not jump to mend the silence immediately. Harry keeps his head down and waits for the scathing words that never come. Snape does not bellow out how foolish Harry had been, how like his father he was in inventing outrageous mischiefs. He does not demand what the hell he had been thinking. He instead takes something out from the pocket of his robes and throws it on the bedcovers. Harry looks at the mangled object in front of him and his blood runs cold.

A shattered locket.

One Riddle, gone.

 _No_ , Riddle whispers. Maniac rage pools inside his head. No, no.

“Mister Malfoy gave this to me,” Snape says. Harry stares at the broken Horcrux. His mind is aflame, filled with the Riddle’s snarls with savagery about profanities and obscenities, but he tries to push that all aside to listen to Snape’s words. “He was very frantic about it. You told him that this was…a Horcrux.” Snape pauses. “I would not have believed it, but then, of course. I saw the boy.”

Harry wet his lips. “Did…did you destroy it?” he croaks.

“Partially,” Snape says slowly. “The locket was already cracked by that time. I merely took caution to cast a fatal spell.” Snape looks sharply at him. He waits. Harry does not react.

“Potter,” Snape says again. He wants something. But what?  No, he knows what Snape wants, he knows what he should say. But he does not care to offer it to the man, not if he can help it. He wants this silence to stretch, for Snape to leave him be. Yet Snape does not seem to want to play the game much longer. “I confess, I had kept my silence about you and your motives purely out of my own selfish reasons, but it seems that you’ll endanger us all with the maddening way you are set to go about your task. So let me ask you: why are you here?”

Harry draws in a breath and does not meet Snape’s eyes. “Well,” he tries for a dry tone, “I got blasted by the Horcrux, as you’ve just told me—”

“Don’t be the idiot with me, Potter,” Snape interrupts in a colder tone, “You know what I meant. In this life, this… _timeline_. You told me you had once experienced war, Potter; now, why would you want to come back to relive it all over again instead of basking in whatever undeserved glory that would have awaited you?”

Harry maintains his silence. Riddle’s voice roars around his head. It sounds petty and inhumane and for fuck’s sake, Harry wants to sneer, Voldemort, what did you think we were, _friends_? Just because you talk to me inside my own head doesn’t mean I’m going to spare you or any of your souls lying around. I will kill you, of course this is all normal.

Snape continues on in a clipped tone.

“Or perhaps it’s better if you don’t answer. I know why, Potter. You told me that you wanted to prevent a disastrous war from happening. But boy, all wars are a mayhem. Surely you would know that, at your stage in life. After all, you had fought your own bloodied war. If what you have told me up until now is true.”

“I know that,” Harry says, matching Snape’s icy tone with fire.

“Then why,” Snape says slowly, using a tone he only reserved for Gryffindors, “Do you think you can save everyone?”

Harry bites his lips. His refuses to answer and lowers his head. He realizes his own white fury is matching Riddle’s howls.

“I’m not trying to save everyone,” he says flatly. “Just the people that I think could have lived.”

Snape laughs. It is not a pleasant sound. “So you think you can play god to the past that wrecked you?” Snape asks. “You think you can choose who will live and die in this upcoming war of ours? You’re easy to read, Potter, and I see death in your eyes. Constantly. I saw Black’s fate in your eyes even before you asked me for his acquittal. You want to save him. For reasons only Salazar may know, you wish to save _me_.”

At that, Harry’s head snaps up, his eyes widening in shock.

Riddle’s voice snarls. He is not best amused. _Did you think you could fool him? He was a traitor, a spy for the Order and the Death Eaters both, he would smell treachery and deception with that hideous nose of his before you can hide away your secrets, and now that he’s destroyed the locket, I will kill him—tear him apart and feed him to—_

“Did you think you could fool me?” Snape repeats Riddle’s curses, his soft voice deadly. Harry can do nothing but stare at him. “I saw how you’ve looked at me, Potter. You hate me so very much, but then comes a moment when your face changes. Guilt. You feel guilty with your own emotions; you rein in your rage while I teach you the Dark Arts which _relies_ upon that very rage…tell me, Potter, in this war of yours, do I die for your cause?”

Harry tries to say something. He swallows and his mouth is too dry.

“Or do I die because of my own cowardice?” Snape’s voice is all cold amusement, his black, beady eyes looking intently into Harry’s own. “I don’t care to know. I don’t care to have a boy who is naive enough to wear his heart on his face to come prevent me from my choice of death. I don’t indulge in the whims of little boys. Do what you must in this life of yours, but keep your dirty hands off my cause.”

And this should be the end of Severus Snape, with his swirling robes and his back a final rebuke against what Harry had tried to do, what he had failed to do alone—and Harry feels cold, his heart is beating erratically, he wants to say something crucial, something that would stop Snape in his tracks—

“I die.”

His hands clenched in the bedsheets, he stares hard at the locket in front of him, and therefore he does not meet Snape’s eyes as he utters those two damning words. But out of the corner of his eyes he sees Snape’s black robes shifting, pausing; the man does not turn his face towards Harry, but that would be better than the cold dismissal Snape would have given him. Harry goes on before Snape could intervene.

 _Your stupidity knows no bounds_ , Riddle says, frost evident in his words.

“You save me ever since I set foot here in Hogwarts, and I hate you for it, and you despise me for other things—but it doesn’t change the fact that I die and you know about it. You show me. In your memories.” Harry closes his eyes. A lamb for slaughter. He did not know he would have resurrected at that time. He had gone, because it was the right thing to do, as the eyes of his dying professor probed at him. “You knew I had to die. You hated it. Not because of any fond memories that you might have had of me—” Harry swallows back a tired laugh. Apathy begins to close in at him. That old, familiar friend of exhaustion. “You never had that. But. For my mum. You wanted to atone yourself through me and that—” Harry gives a little shrug of his shoulders. His voice is flat. “But you knew I had to die. So I did. So you did.”

“But you came back.” Snape’s voice is not a question.

“Yes.”

The dead do not have their voices. Snape was a man that Harry had resurrected with his lone memories in his mind and solitude; Snape with his flimsy records and Snape with his knack for brilliance. Death Eater, traitor, spy. Snape with his childish grudges and hatred. His love for the Dark Arts. His rage. His spitting fire. His grudging loyalty.

_What do we do with the dead?_

_We build a pyre in their wake._

After the last battle at Hogwarts, he had held Ginny’s hand and watched the smoke rise up the night stars and thought of the fallen dead. Thought of Remus and Tonks and Fred and Colin and Snape. Thought of Snape and his love for Lily Potter, his hatred for James Potter. Thought about the people fallen and found that he could not gather up the sorrow he felt they all deserved. He stared at the fire until the ashes settled. He looked at Ginny’s face, the firelight flickering against her pale face. Grief did not bring them closer but her hand felt warm enough to console him. He wanted to reach out and beg her for something she could not give. Ginny, save me. Later, Harry thought those were the words that he wanted to say to her. But he had never known how to ask for help. Even now, he does not know what to trust, whom to believe.

_How do we remember the dead?_

_We don’t, not really. We relive old memories; we rehash old arguments. We talk into the empty air._

Snape stands still, a few feet away from Harry’s bedside. He does not come closer but he does not make any move to leave anytime soon. Harry has nothing more to offer him, however; he had foretold Snape’s end, he had admitted his own death. The in-betweens were not important. Perhaps Death was right all those times Harry had beseeched him of another chance. What could one change in a lifetime?

“So did not wish me to die in vain.”

“I don’t want you to _die_.”

“On your terms.” Snape’s voice is flat but he lacks the disdain he had shown to Harry just moments before.

“Fine, if you want to put it that way. Is that so bad?” And Harry’s voice in this body is high and young, but his words are weary and defeated. “Is it so bad to try to prevent some things from happening?”

“There is only so much one can do, Potter,” Snape says. His voice sounds just as drained, yet his posture does not waver. Snape does not ask him about his peculiar choice of words. Does not probe, what does it mean to die and come back alive? He does not question his own death. Snape, it seems, does not do many things Harry wants him to do. It would be nice if Snape turned around and pointed his wand at Harry to kill him. They would rid themselves of another Horcrux. It would be nicer still if Snape would cooperate and understand. Lay aside their petty wounds and sketch out a battle plan. But such things are not to be.

Snape walks away. Harry does not call back after him. He has no time to thank Snape for saving his life, for teaching him the spell of blue fire that almost killed Riddle. He does not even acknowledge Snape’s hand in his godfather’s acquittal.

In the end, he is just as sullen and reticent as he had always been, leaving old animosities battered and torn.

.

.

.

“We have detention together,” Malfoy announces at breakfast.

Harry doesn’t look up from his plate. His head is throbbing from the lack of sleep. Visions of Snape and his fathomless black eyes ( _look at me_ ; gargle, rasp, beg, and all will be still, he will be dead) haunt him. “That’s nice,” he says tiredly. Hermione fusses over the state of his eggs and shoots an evil glare at Ron, who is busily shoving a slice of toast all at once. Ron remains unperturbed.

“For what?” Hermione asks impatiently, “Harry’s just been out of the Hospital Wing, he needs rest, he doesn’t need—”

“If you want to counter against Snape about how he sets about doing his job, by all means, do so, Granger,” Malfoy says tersely. “In the meantime, Potter and I are to report to Filch at eight tonight. For the inappropriate use of magic outside school grounds, he says. What utter rubbish.”

“So you do agree that it’s a stupid reason,” Ron says, after he finishes swallowing the bread. He ignores Hermione’s exasperated groan and snags a muffin. Malfoy sneers at him.

“I didn’t mean that Potter didn’t deserve the detention, I meant that there was no reason for me to tag along. Just because I witnessed some foul magic—”

“—and helped prevent a Dark Lord from coming back—” Harry adds under his breath, and nearly flinches at the sharp hiss he hears inside his brain.

“—and yes, that, whatever Potter—it doesn’t mean I have to suffer the same punishments as Potter here. While you two have been doing…what have you been doing while we’ve been risking our lives?”

“Funny you should ask,” Hermione says, prompt and businesslike, “seeing as both of you still haven’t told us why you had to visit Harry’s godfather—”

“So it’s true then?” Ron interrupts loudly, and Hermione lets out an audible groan of frustration that must have echoed all the way through the Great Hall ceilings, “Sirius Black is your godfather?”

“Yep,” Harry answers, and cannot help but smile at Hermione’s disgruntled face. “And it’s not that I’m trying to hide anything from you, Hermione, but I haven’t been able to sneak off to your common room. I’m sorry.” He adds in the apology dutifully with a tinge of remorse that always would have Hermione’s spirits uplifted. Hermione would value honesty, if nothing else.

“Like you said, Granger, he’s been in and out of the hospital wing. For no reason other than his fragile state of being,” Malfoy drawls. Hermione looks conflicted even as she tugs her bulky bag closer to her chest. It is then Harry notices how heavy the bag must be, with the multiple books stuffed to the brim.

“You’ll come to the Gryffindor common room tonight, then?” she inquires, ignoring Malfoy’s barfing noise, “After detention? There’s something I want to ask you and— _yes_ , Malfoy, we’ve been busy in the library and not idling about, which I’m sure you were doing—”

“I’ve been keeping Potter from wasting his magic towards pointless endeavors and keeping his head afloat,” Malfoy says immediately, “Which can’t be said for the either of you—”

“We found out how to get to the Philosopher’s Stone,” Ron interrupts. He waves his muffin about with one hand and nods to Hermione’s overflowing bag. “Who knew, you can get some stuff done in the library.”

There is a brief, dramatic silence.

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione says, all resignation and irritation at once, “I was about to just say that. Could you not interrupt and chew—silently—with you mouth closed? That’s _disgusting_.”

Ron takes another bite of his muffin, unabashed. Harry blinks, surprised; and as Ron’s words sink in, delight takes over him as he beams at them.

“You did?” he asks. Ron and Hermione nod, their faces breaking out into pleased smiles, while Malfoy does his best to look dutifully unimpressed.

“We went to the third floor corridor, got past the dog—that’s the part you told us Harry, but easier said than done—and then we went through a trapdoor and nearly got suffocated by Devil’s Snare—we think the professors all did some sort of enchantment spells to prevent any intruders from getting the Stone,” Hermione says in a rush of breath. “We managed past the dog while you two were down in London—just to see—”

“Nearly got bitten off by that bloody hound,” Ron says, and this time Hermione nods fervently in agreement.

“It was asleep when we went in, but the dog was waking up just as we were pushing past the trapdoor—it was a good thing that we fell under—”

“Nasty plant, that, Devil’s Snare. If it weren’t for Hermione we’d have been choked alive,” Ron mutters, and corrects himself, “Well, I would’ve.”

“Isn’t that a pity,” Malfoy says sweetly, and Harry shoves at him to keep his silence.

Ron glares at him and continues on where Hermione had left off, “And then after that bloody sentient plant, we had Flitwick—”

“Broomsticks and flying keys, you mean.”

“Yeah, that—and Hermione couldn’t fly, so obviously—”

“Yes, Ronald here showed off his impressive flying skills and the keys were swarming at him like leeches as soon as he got the right key for the next door,” Hermione says smugly. Ron shudders. Harry cocks his head while Malfoy fakes a yawn.

“So you went through all of them?” he asks. He has it in him to be impressed. They are eleven after all, and while he had been too busy to help them, immersed as he had been in the Horcruxes and the Hallows and Riddle’s mind games, Ron and Hermione had found out how to get past the barriers in the third corridor by themselves. But Hermione shakes her head.

“After that…well, Professor McGonagall found us in the next room. She was putting up the last touches of a huge chess set.”

“I would have aced that one,” Ron grumbles and Harry winces sympathetically.

“She wasn’t best pleased with us,” Hermione says slowly, “And we couldn’t give her the real reason for breaking the school rules, could we? She was all set to expel us, I think, but Professor Dumbledore stopped her in time. She was awfully furious, though.”

“Professor Dumbledore stopped you?” Harry repeated weakly.

“He said that we must have had a very good reason to break such explicit school rules,” Ron says, shrugging. “Whatever that meant. He was hinting about you, though—said something about how inter-House cooperation came with loyalty, how our team effort was gallant—pity he didn’t see us all—”

“He seemed to know that you showed an interest in the Stone, Harry,” Hermione says, more cautious in her tone, “We told him about how you knew what the third corridor contained. He didn’t seem surprised.”

“I…see,” Harry says slowly. He did not see. How did Dumbledore know what he was searching for in the castle? They had only talked about Riddle, and Harry’s fear of Slytherin, his proclivity for the Dark Arts. He had only extracted the very basics from Dumbledore. He sneaks a look at the staffs’ table and finds Dumbledore watching their side of the table. He quickly looks back. “Funny,” he says slowly, “Seems like he already knew what we’re up to.”

Hermione studies him with her shrewd, knowing look. “He seemed like he trusted you, Harry,” she says, just as careful and slow with her words, “He knew that we knew about the Stone. He said that—the dog, it liked music, maybe next time we could have lured it to sleep before things got too dangerous…”

And you are always so slow to pick up your clues, Riddle whispers, as Harry’s heart beats faster and he has to control his breathing as to keep himself from doing something incredibly rash. The facts dangle in front of his eyes and he curses himself. He was a fool before; he is a food still. His magic burns inside him; a hot, coiling anger, and he wonders how Dumbledore knew. How Harry had thought to fool Dumbledore. How he had thought to trust Snape to keep his secret. How he had thought to win a war that had not happened yet, with the vile creature nestling inside his brain.

Riddle gives a pleased hum.

.

.

.

Winter has come without his noticing.

He feels the full force of it now: the cold night sky and his steaming breath coming out in short puffs as he walks outside beyond the castle walls. He huddles underneath his cloak, but the chill goes under his clothes and through his bones. Besides him, Malfoy is also hunched and chilled, trotting behind Filch sullenly and silently, holding a lamp in one hand. The snow crunches under his feet. A unicorn has died, Hagrid is concerned, and Malfoy is disgusted at the situation of it all. (“This is servants’ work!” he protested loudly, and Hagrid shot Harry a worried look as if being a prat was infectious; Harry had given his old friend a strained smile to ward off any misgivings.) They had already gone through Malfoy’s mild panic attack at serving detention in the Forbidden Forest of all places (“Don’t worry, Malfoy, I’ll protect you from the centaurs,” Harry had said dryly, and that had shut Malfoy up effectively enough, at any rate) and now all that is left to do is to find out the bloodied unicorn. Hagrid shows them the silver blob of blood and mentions the poor dying creature, and they must find out what had killed it.

Well, Harry knows _who_ had, but he does not think Malfoy’s fluttering heart could bear another vision of Voldemort again. He had been strangely quiet about the incident in Grimmauld Place, and had not shared his thoughts on the young Tom Riddle he had seen emerge out of the locket. There were no notes exchanged on the destruction of the locket, or even what happened after Riddle’s attack, and while Harry had been curious about the aftermath, he had endured Malfoy’s moods enough to know not to push Malfoy’s buttons all at once. In due time. Perhaps in the Forest, walking together in their silence, Malfoy might be persuaded to talk. Harry sneaks a glance at the boy. Malfoy’s lips are already blue; from the cold or from fear, Harry does not really know. Filch is muttering gleefully under his breath and Malfoy is glaring at nothing in particular. The lamp dangles precariously.

“Careful you don’t drop that,” Harry says.

“Mind your words, Potter, unless you want me to hex you,” Malfoy snaps back. His lips are quivering. “As if you don’t know whose fault it is we’re out here. By Salazar, this is barbaric. My father will be enraged.”

“Your father—” Harry begins, and then shakes his head. “Whatever, the sooner we find the unicorn, the sooner we can get back.”

“That’s the spirit, lads,” Filch sneers, and he gestures with his filthy hand towards the edge of the forest. “We’re here; might as make yourselves nice and useful.”

The Forest is eerie and strangely familiar; he had been here in his dreams and he had once faced his death in these clearings. But even as he takes a step forward, Malfoy balks; and his lamp does not move any further.

“Must we?” Malfoy demands, but his voice now holds true fear. “We’re students, first-years, in fact, who knows what might be out here—”

“Your professor thought mighty highly of you, then,” Filch rasps. His eye glitter maliciously. “He recommended this task ‘specially for you two…mentioned you once or twice, Potter…”

Harry shrugs and turns to look at Malfoy.

“Like I said,” he says patiently. “Werewolves, centaurs, spiders…you won’t die here, Malfoy.”

“Werewolves?” Now Malfoy looks positively ill. “We’re to face them alone, then? What if we get bitten? Never mind you, Potter—what if _I_ do?”

Harry does not bother to answer him. He feels he would laugh hysterically and Malfoy might truly kill him for his troubles.

“Come on,” he says, and steps closer to the wild branches that mark the forest’s territory. A surge of wildness passes through him; surely not the wind, he thinks. Magic. There is something inside these woods, something foul, something familiar. He smells dried blood, dead skins, a whiff of stale air. He marches forth and after a short silence, he hears the muffled sound of footsteps following behind him.

They march.

The forest seems to mock their path; the branches lift and shake with the wind, and it revels a small, paved dirt road which Malfoy sticks to meticulously. His face is set and grim. Here is a boy that had no nightmares save for magical creatures lurking in his mind in his childhood. Harry smiles and takes out his wand. His fingers are stiff and red. _Lumos_. His wand lights up.

Malfoy throws Harry an irritated look. “If you’re going to show off, Potter,” he sneers, “Might as well get rid of the beasts lurking inside these woods while we’re at it. How are we supposed to find this bloodied unicorn?”

Harry shrugs. “With the smell, I expect,” he says mildly. “There would be tracks. It’s easy to spot unicorn blood.”

“Seen much in your lifetime, have you?” Malfoy gives out an irritated huff, and his footsteps thump loudly against the frozen ground. “Never mind, that didn’t require an answer. Of course you have. It seems there’s nothing the Boy-Who-Lived hasn’t done or seen.”

There is something more in Malfoy’s look than a child who has been forced out of bed for a nasty night of detention. He is slow to catch at it, but in the flickering light, Harry makes out the thinned lips of the blond boy, his resolute determination not to meet Harry’s eyes, and the way he holds himself. Stiff and ready to attack his foe, or flee, if it comes down to it. His father must have taught him that, Harry thinks.

“There’s plenty I haven’t done,” he returns steadily. He brings his wand closer around them, and Malfoy’s face is pale and white in the glowing light. “Malfoy, if you want to say something, say it. Merlin, you’re such a child when you want to be.”

“I am, am I?” Malfoy returns, sharp and immediate, “It’s not because of me that we’re stranded out in the dark forest, searching for invisible blood with foul cretins sniffing about our tracks! It’s all you and your extraordinary ability to get us all in trouble—”

“So that’s what this is,” Harry says. He lets out a sigh and the warm breath hurts his frozen cheeks. “Malfoy, I’d have expected you to leave that room if something dangerous came about, you’re clever enough to pretend that it was all me—”

“You almost died, Potter!” Malfoy screeches, and the dark woods echo with his voice and his words bounce across the dark abyss around them. Harry falters his steps; eventually he stops, and looks at the boy shaking in front of him. A thin, frightened voice. Malfoy is just a child, a spoilt brat who had not yet seen blood or murder or death. And yet how familiar those words sounded on those lips. Years and years later, another Malfoy would shout those same words onto him. Harry would be continually baffled by Malfoy’s anger.  “That thing—whatever it was—it nearly choked you alive, it came out and taunted us—what was it? You knew him, he recognized you—”

“Hush, Malfoy,” Harry says, and he takes a rapid few steps forward to hold Malfoy by the arm. Malfoy does not shrug off his touch, and Harry drags the boy closer. He would have hugged the boy, if it meant that Malfoy would stop speaking. Even if it meant a hex. He deserved one anyway. What was he thinking, running around with children who knew no better? _It’s because you could not trust Snape_ , a voice reminds him. _It’s because even now, you are bound to the same mistakes you have made as a child. You are unrepentant in your actions, sure of your logic._ “You’re…you’re cold, that’s what you are. You’re blabbering nonsense.” Because you don’t care about me, he doesn’t add. Because you don’t care whether I live or die, you can’t, not for a long while at least, not yet. He remembers Malfoy’s sudden kiss and his desperate words, a lifetime ago, shoving such memories all aside. Now is not the time to wonder. Malfoy is barking mad, he thinks. He repeats his words slowly, soothingly. He waves his wand and encloses them both in a warming spell. The frost around them liquefies under the sudden heat.

“…You should’ve thought of that sooner, Potter,” Malfoy mutters. He does not sound very broken, not anymore, Harry finds it safe to offer him a lopsided smile.

“I’ll find us the unicorn,” he says. “You won’t die here, Malfoy.”

Malfoy does not answer him immediately. Harry thinks that should be the end of it. When he jerks up his face to meet Harry’s eyes, however, he is surprised to see such frustration and anger etched on Malfoy’s face. As if Harry did not get the subtlety and nuanced language that was Draco Malfoy. Malfoy opens his mouth, and the words are the last thing Harry expects him to say.

“We’ll split up,” Malfoy says. His voice is devoid of the frantic words he had rushed at Harry moments before. It is all steel and brittle determination. “The forest is too big for us to huddle about together. You go this way, Potter—” Malfoy gestures to one side of the forest while Harry only stares at him, “—and I’ll go this way. We’ll send up sparks when one of us come into trouble. Which would be you, Potter, considering all the racket you make about.”

“Malfoy—”

“Don’t belittle me, Potter,” Malfoy cuts off coldly, “You may be a miracle boy of the wizarding world, and there’s something awfully wretched about you, but don’t think me the idiot. I’m not following up your mad schemes because I’m a fool.”

And before he can come up with a reply, Malfoy turns away and marches out to the opposite direction. Harry stares after him, wondering how heavy a curse Malfoy would throw at him if he dared to follow. After a brief second of deliberation, he sighs and turns the other way.

.

.

.

In the clearing alone, Harry expects to meet Voldemort, perched upon a ragged rock, twirling his wand and waiting for him to walk into his death.

But only the wind greets him; a hollow, swishing sound around him, and he holds his wand closer to him, and the cloak inside his pocket bulges with each step he takes.

This is where I walked towards my death, he thinks. He touches the lump underneath his robes and pulls out his Invisibility Cloak. It was given to him by Sirius back at the hospital wing. The cloak ripples along with the cold wind, and hears the thin laughter echoing. Death. He felt it before, when he briefly brushed the Dumbledore’s hand in his office, and he feels the drafty chill once more, as he slips on the cloak and summons up the want and need. The desire to cheat Death.

The forest is a mist; greyness envelopes at the darkness as his wand’s light flickers and fades away like a weak candle. He holds his head high and does not shiver. Will not shake.

Death approaches. With his billowing dark cloak and wispy hands, it stretches out his arms and seemingly welcomes him. His voice is mocking and light.

Harry Potter, he speaks. So you have found out how to summon me.

You can’t be summoned, Harry speaks. His voice comes out restrained and flat. It is not fear that unnerves him. It is the sense of defeat and failure he feels that makes him want to retch up bile. Confession clogs his throat.

I could have pretended. Death is all pleasantries as always, his voice a small whisper amidst the wind. Harry has to strain to hear him. But yes, here you are. You had never thought to call me through my cloak. Here is a first.

A first for everything, Harry agrees.

Yes. Death muses, his hooded head tilting. He seems to be studying Harry’s small form, and so his words are slow to emerge. And have you found what you are seeking for here, Harry Potter? Fouled the intentions of your enemies, thwarted the deaths of your loved ones? Its voice takes a lilt. He knows very well Harry has not; not even close to accomplishing half the things he had set out to do. Had not saved anyone as of yet. But there was time. _There must be time._

I destroyed a soul, Harry offers.

A partial soul, Death is quick to correct. Let us not get hasty, Master of Death. That soul you wish to butcher shall not be done so easily.

Knew him well, do you? Harry says. His voice imitates the lightless Death gives him. Tom Riddle, I mean. He was mighty scared of you, did you know that?  
Every mortal is, Death dismisses. He then pauses. Except for you, it seems.

And Dumbledore, Harry finds it in himself to defend the old wizard.

Yes. In his old age, when he was wiser, perhaps. But, come now. Harry feels Death smiling. You have not called me here to talk about dead men and their crude ambitions.

He had not expected Death to call him upon his game. Harry grimaces and fumbles at the cloak. It is light and feeble under his touch. You told me that there were few things I could change in the past, he says slowly.

Yes. Death appears, for all intent and purposes, uninterested.

But you still sent me back.

Yes.

I have another soul inside my body.

Are you merely asking or confirming your lack of ineptitude on this quest? Death now jeers. You ask me answers to things you very much know yourself—

And Tom Riddle, Harry says in a rush, because as much as he likes to shout at Death on the worst of his days, he truly has no great desire to aggravate Death any further. He knows me here. Voldemort and Riddle both. Why?

Perhaps it’s because you share the same soul, Death intones. He gives out a little shake of his hand and seemingly inspects something from the thin air besides him.

But he died. It’s been ten years.

We do not choose when to disrupt our enemies from their solidarity of peace, Death says. Perhaps young Riddle wished to sabotage your plans for heroism and gallant efforts.

You knew of this.

I know of the desires in such mortals.

You gave me your memories of Albus Dumbledore, Harry persists. When he went and wore the Resurrection Stone.

He is getting closer to his request, and if only he could…

Yes. So that you may not walk down the same path of mistakes and follies of that wizard. Death laughs. Although you have failed marvelously on that account.

But you—

I know what you seek of me, boy. Death says. His voice is softly spoken but unyielding with its harshness. Many years I have lived, and many a times have I seen fools beg me for mercy and chances…you may be different from those hopeless ones by the virtue of the Hallows you possess, but make no mistake, Master of Death…I do not like to be ordered about.

His title is a warning; he is in the realms of the living, and therefore he is both vulnerable and invincible in the eyes of death. He stands at a standstill in life, wishing to live so that others may be saved. _Do not play the Savior to this war_ , Potter. Snape’s voice overlaps Death’s hiss, and demands that he curbs whatever insolence he wished to betray tonight. The cloak is elusive and flimsy. He is easy prey for Death, whose lair and power lie in such darkness and danger. He takes control of his senses and nods slightly. He does not request that he may disrupt the soul ensnared inside him. He does not ask that Tom Riddle show himself from the land of the dead, where he must be. Where he should be. He does not ask that the soul inside him to perish while he lives on. That would have been the easy way out; but it was a fool’s request, a desperate cry from a tired boy. It has been a long time since he has been that.

The forest seems to quiver. The night is cold, and Harry clutches his cloak tightly.

If that is all you seek of me, I must warn you…it seems that time is short for us, Death says. His voice has returned to its mocking tone, full of false gaiety and wily lies. I sense that young Draco Malfoy is about to embark upon a journey into the otherworld.

Harry stares at Death. Blinks.

He gets it almost instantly, but his feet are slow to react. The thoughts come out of nowhere—never in his timeline had Malfoy suffered from death, surely the boy wouldn’t start now, not when Harry was busy trying to save the world from a resurrection of Voldemort—and when his assumptions about Malfoy shatter, he is all too quick to let out a small gasp and turn the other way. The fog lifts and Death fades away, his laughter the last to go.

Till we meet again, Death speaks. And until then, let us not despair of your foolhardy expeditions of noble enterprises that shall all come to naught.

“Damn your fucking riddles,” Harry says loudly, because his fear disappears with the fog and the strange, eerie presence of Death, and holds up his wand. He grits his teeth and breaks into a run, following Malfoy’s uneven footsteps in the snow.

 _You better not be dead, Malfoy_ , Harry thinks vehemently. I will kill you first before you are.

That raging thought somehow comforts him. Rage has turned him into a barbarian thirsting for blood.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are coming out very slowwwwly...mostly because I have a broad plotline of where I want to go, and this isn't even half of it!!!! But I keep getting sidetracked with the minor details. ARGH. I promise you, once it goes back into the present timeline it gets...maybe a bit easier to keep track...maybe. After this and a couple of chapters it would be the end of the first year, and we would see a lot (I mean a LOT) of Riddle in action. And you cane see me go at Riddle's history with such artistic flair and fuckery...  
> I also want to thank all the lovely people who place comments and take the time to read my work. I love all the comments so, so much. I didn't think I would, but I really needed (and still need!) the encouragement that makes this whole story going. The comments truly make my day and make me think that writing this piece of gloom is worth it. I'm so thankful for all the lovely people out there taking the time to read and comment. Thank you.

He was a legend once.

The boy who lived, or, who failed to die. It depends on the people who would speak of his deeds (or blunders), but the facts are laid out bare for the historians to greedily devour. When Voldemort failed to kill him the people believed the Dark Lord to have gone forever, and when he returned they expected Harry Potter to save them again when the need arose. As if surviving the Killing Curse once meant that he would thereafter be immune to death. He shouldered on those expectations without really knowing just how much the public was ready to rip him apart and discard him when they preferred comfortable lies over truth, and he was burdened with their fears once again when he went out into the wild and searched blindly for Voldemort’s souls.

And years passed. People moved on and he was still alone in his dusty old house with Kreacher for company, and on some very bad days he felt that he had no one at all. In this new world he woke up from nightmares and vented out his newfound rage by throwing books and ignoring Kreacher’s soft cooing noises, as if to calm his foul temper. In this new world the war was truly over, and every day he expected to wake up into the cold morning air, Hermione sobbing besides him, Ron gone and the dying fire burning its last twigs. He expected to be woken up with the locket clutched tightly into his hand, blindly wondering how to open the damn thing, how to destroy it, hating Dumbledore for the things he never said, secrets he took with his sudden death.

He woke up, and the world was bright and alit. He found no place for this world, and so he waited for Teddy to wake up so they could have a nice outing at the park.

Teddy, in his small clothes and bright eyes with his wild messy hair. Teddy, to his delight, found out that one day he could transform his nose into a pig’s snout. At breakfast he showed his newfound ability to Harry with pride that only a child could show. When Harry laughed, pleased but not very surprised, Teddy looked smug at having made him laugh, and took to transforming to people next. Sometimes Harry looked at Teddy and would end up staring at a miniature replica of himself, complete with his faded scar and bright green eyes. Teddy, in his attempt at morphing, would complete his transformation by mimicking Harry’s tight face. It was a strange look on a child’s.

Do I really look like that? Harry asked, bemused.

Teddy gave a solemn nod.

Harry tried to curve his mouth into a smile. Teddy mirrored the curve of his lips, and child-Harry beamed up at him. Some days Harry deluded himself into thinking that Teddy was his son. _You look just like your father._ Those words were no longer spoken, for the world had long forgotten about James Potter and his achievements. Everyone is so quick to move on, Teddy. Harry swallowed his words. Carefully, he ran a hand through Teddy’s soft locks, that unruly hair Aunt Petunia so hated in his childhood.

That’s very good, Teddy, Harry said, his voice full of fake cheer. With Teddy it was not very hard to pretend.

Teddy who liked to skip in the sunlight and always ran ahead of Harry each time. How Harry had let him race down the streets like a wild child and in those times his life looked almost normal and he thought, yes, this is what I fought for, perhaps this is why I am still waking up every day. How in the bright daylight he could forget about his nightmares because Teddy was there to talk him out of it with his bright chatter and made Harry helpless with laughter.

And then how Teddy fell to the ground.

.

.

.

His heart thumps rapidly and his scar burns. He had not missed that pain in the years gone by. He hears Malfoy’s screams before he finds them.

Over the years, that voice had haunted him in strange ways. Different from his other ghosts, this voice was; Malfoy was always alive in his dreams, and he had never disappointed him by dropping dead. That had to count for something, in Harry’s small circle of associates. He did not adorn the graves that lurked in Harry’s mind. There came the War and Malfoy had his first taste of what death might feel like, but he did not die. Shouldn’t that count for something?

In what was to be their seventh year at Hogwarts they had a war in place of banal school rivalry. They met again as enemies. Barely out of their school robes, they had their wands raised and Malfoy at that time could not kill him even when it would have been an honor to do so, an obligation if he could not muster that enthusiasm. At seventeen Malfoy was a reluctant played in a world where the Malfoy name warranted no respect and was considered a laughingstock. And in that strange place Malfoy could not kill him, and chose to scream instead as the fire inside the Room of Hidden Things burned and rose, and Harry had gone back to save an enemy. In the fire they barely managed to get out, he had stretched out his arm and Malfoy had clung onto it. He remembers how Malfoy had smelled: ash and sweat and fear. Malfoy held onto him so tightly that he could not breathe. But they had both lived. That was the important part.

That was the last of Draco Malfoy, he had told himself. And yet he kept saving the boy and later the man. He saved Malfoy from prison and he hid him from a public execution. Now he is here once more, saving a child who should be too young to see such things.

What does he want to gain from this life?

He doesn’t care for the sound Malfoy makes, not when the scream is too childlike and foreign to his ears. Only a child. Only a boy he has never known, not really. He follows the echoing shriek, his wand out and pointed in front of him. The wind passes by him as the cold nips his nose.

Soon enough he finds them. Surrounded by the forest canopy, a hooded figure hunched over a dead unicorn, and Malfoy, already disarmed and helpless, his pale face knowing only terror. His grey eyes are wide and his shivering figure—so small and so helpless, not standing a chance against Voldemort. He had once been that boy. Once stood there and been reckless because he did not know about the extent of Voldemort’s power and darkness, and perhaps had never quite known. Perhaps it was his own ignorance that allowed him to defeat a man who was not meant to be vanquished.

“—And here he comes.”

The voice is a raspy one, a voice from long ago—a Voldemort in the brink of death and not quite alive. The hooded cloak speaks. Not quite Quirrell’s voice, yet not quite the voice Harry sometimes hears in his dreams. It is raspy and taut, easily buried at the whipping wind around them. Harry approaches them slowly, careful not to look in Malfoy’s direction, careful to not let his attention wander. The hooded cloak is amused at this display of wariness.

“Did I not say that he would come? Foolish of him…still abiding by the rules of dead men and lost causes…”

He senses glee underneath those words. Voldemort is satisfied that Malfoy’s screams had led Harry here. Voldemort had always been so sure of his actions, knowing where he would go before Harry had even made up his mind. He had counted on Harry to give himself up, counting upon the sacrificial streak Harry had that Voldemort never quite understood. And yet, Harry had known quite a few things about Voldemort as well.

_Show me remorse, Tom._

Once, when Harry was younger and did not fear death, he had mocked Voldemort to do the one thing the Dark Lord could not. For it was the only way Voldemort could have lived, if only the man had shown remorse and reassembled his fragmented souls. But those words were a mockery, word games Harry did not care to play with at this particular moment. Their mutual destruction is not guaranteed in this timeline; Voldemort still has his souls intact, after all. The Riddle in his mind swirls with an array of emotions that threatens to make him fall to his knees, and his scar burns so much that he wishes nothing more than to tear out his own head apart to rid himself of the pain…

And there they are again, once more. The figure makes no move to attack, allowing Harry to inspect the surroundings around him. Malfoy has ceased screaming, but his eyes are still filled with horror, his grey eyes imploring Harry. He does not offer Malfoy comfort by looking in his direction. And Harry walks another few steps, careful to pace his walk, careful to make sure his hand is steady. He smells blood in the cold air, a wafting, sickly smell.

Not unicorn blood.

Human.

Voldemort at his weakest, Harry thinks. His heart is pounding and blood rushes through his head. He is dizzy with elation and frenzied rage. There would be no need to get to the Stone. No need to jump through the hoops Dumbledore has set up. He could finish off Voldemort right here and now, just like in his most desirable dreamscapes, he could set this whole forest on fire—

 _Where is the mercy that Dumbledore had taught you?  Where is the_ love _that your Mudblood mother gave you all those years ago? Has it gone now? Has it ever been there?_

Old echoes. Old taunts. Mercy died, Harry thinks. He does not know when, cannot pinpoint that exact moment when he felt no forgiveness for those fallen enemies and goners. When he felt nothing save for an abstract sense of helplessness at the world that failed to change. Years passed and everything was the same as it had ever been; he has learned that history was bound to repeat itself. An inevitable tragedy. If there were people hissing and cursing at the Malfoy name and its ties to the War, so there were people sneering at Mudbloods infesting the Ministry, who believed that blood was everything. Still and evermore. Years passed and people grew nostalgic for the good old days when Death Eaters roamed the streets to set the streets aflame and hunted Mudbloods for sport.

Ten years is a long time enough for people to forget and move on, Harry. Hermione staring out into the fire, her hands clasping his hand. He was shaking. Hermione was not crying the tears Harry wished of her. Harry watched the dying embers and hated her calm voice. Teddy was already cold in the morgue. Ten years makes people do foolish things, she said again. Hermione did the best she could when she tried to explain actions Harry did not quite wish to empathize with. He did not try to ward off her words. Hermione squeezed his hand tighter. Her words drifted off and Harry, engulfed with silence once more, thought dully whether a world with an absolute evil might have been better than the world he had helped shaped. At least with Voldemort you knew what to expect. Knew your vilest enemies, knew what to overcome.

It was his mother’s love that allowed him to defeat Voldemort. But here and now, such love is impossible to feel, difficult to conjure up. He harnesses his anger in place of such compassion. Does that make me an equal to Voldemort, somewhere in his mind wonders. But the words are already out of his mouth before he can ponder over pointless philosophies. His wand is poised and ready to strike. Somewhere stashed inside his head for all those years. A woman begs. A man mocks her. A woman screams. A flash of green light. Two words.

Quirrell and Voldemort, that hooded person too, raises his wand, but it is not aimed at Harry.

.

.

.

_Harry, you promised me ice cream, now hurry up, hurry!_

_Teddy, stay at the sidewalk, don’t run into people like that—sorry, sorry—Teddy, wait—_

Somewhere, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a stranger’s hand taking out a wand. Curious. People didn’t normally brandish their wands in the streets with such flair and it was an unusual sight to see. _Auror’s instincts, if you ever think of doing that sort of thing_ , he imagines Ron telling him later. _You’ve always had a good eye for them Harry_ … Harry slowed his steps and turned his head, perplexed but not threatened. Probably a security’s notice. But no—

It was the way the man held his wand that made him take a second look. The man’s face was so inconsequential that later Harry wondered if the man had shown his face at all. But that movement. It had been years since Harry had seen it in his waking moments, but it was familiar enough for him to react. The wand pointed at him. Harry took out his own wand like a slow instinct, his movement hesitant, feeling befuddled and confused. His mind was slow to adapt to a defensive move that he had not used since he was a teenager. In this new world that had erased itself of all evil, there was no need to kill.

The man pointed his wand at Harry, and then the hand shifted.

Harry followed the movement with his eyes and his heart thumped. He choked.

He tried to speak out a spell. A shield. His mouth refused to move, so shocked it was at having to revert back to the old days of attack and defend. Only in his nightmares had he faced such a fate.

.

.

.

The hand moves. The stick points towards the defenseless blond boy, crouching on the ground.

The Killing Curse dies from his mouth. Immediately he conjures up a _Protego_ , narrowing the few steps it would take to reach Malfoy. Malfoy opens his mouth again. But Harry does not hear Malfoy’s scream.

He hears the silence of Teddy.

.

.

.

In broad daylight Teddy fell.

Harry watched how Teddy’s body froze just before he toppled downwards, his eyes unbelieving and refusing to acknowledge that a familiar green light after all these years would come to haunt him once again. By the time Teddy had crashed to the ground, he had his wand gripped loosely by his side and he was overcome with numbness. He stared and could not—would not—accept the body laid out in front of him. Sprawled out as if the boy had only taken a fall.

He distantly heard screaming. Around him people ran for safety, and he ignored them all as he shoved past them, his mind wiped clean of everything. His steps faltering at how his godson looked. He closed the distance between himself and the body, and as he reached out to take Teddy into his arms he felt how warm the boy felt, and relief swept over him. _He wasn’t hit, he’s still alive._ A warm body that would have the heart pumping up blood. Teddy had his eyes closed. The face of child-Harry slowly being replaced with the face of a serene child. Sandy hair and thin eyelashes and pale lips. Parched cheeks. Harry swept a finger over an eyebrow. _You have Remus’s eyes_. He would have told Teddy that. _You have your mother’s temper._ _You can ask about your parents and I will tell you a bedtime story about good and evil, and how people turn into heroes._ He would have spoke about them, when the time came. Delusion overtook his mind and he sat there in the sidewalk holding Teddy’s body until it grew cold in his arms, and he could no longer lie to himself, and there, alone amidst the screaming crowd he held Teddy Lupin with his shaking hands. With the cold body his own relief drained away and rage and grief took his place and he did not know who or what he hated more—the man who killed a boy or the crowd who refused to kill the man in his stead and instead took to running away as they have always done.

Harry wanted to set the street on fire. He wanted the fire to burn, he desired for destruction. This was how the Aurors found him, in the middle of a deserted street, famous Harry Potter and his blazing eyes, not shedding a tear and not speaking a word.

.

.

.

Voldemort’s spell bounces off and sparks off a small fire when it hits at a nearby tree instead. Not the Killing Curse, then. Harry does not have time to wonder why. Kill the spare and be done with it, it’s an old favorite of his, isn't it? Malfoy lets out a small whimper. Harry grasps the boy’s shoulders and shakes him. The fire heats up his cheeks as a succession of trees fall.

 _So perhaps we’ll have a burning end to all of this_ , Harry thinks wildly, lowering his body. His voice is urgent.

“Malfoy, are you okay?”

The boy shivers violently but nods.

_You are a fool, Potter._

Harry turns around and breaks away the shield charm, but Voldemort had already stepped back from the dead unicorn. The hooded head lifts, and Harry can see a flickering of red, eyes that haunted him in his dreams. The maniac glint of Voldemort in Quirrell’s hidden face.

Voldemort would not kill him. Harry is sure of this if nothing else; Voldermort knows what he is—has known this for some time—and Voldemort may do many things to the vessel of his soul, but he would not kill him. This certainty was what had made Harry attack the locket and mocked Riddle without a care, is now the reason why he can afford to save Malfoy and worry about the death of others. It is no longer his death that is at stake.

Voldemort seems to be watching him under the hood. When he speaks, his voice is soft and deadly. He does not use Quirrell’s stammering tone.

_You cannot stop what has already happened. You cannot stop what I am to accomplish, what you are to lose._

His blood boils. So sure of yourself, even at this stage, always certain of your plans that I once helped demolish. But before he could throw a curse at the man, Quirrell steps back into the forestry, his cloak dragging in the wake of the unicorn’s spilt blood. He raises his wand, no curse coming to his lips that would be adequate to throw, no spell enough to express his raw memories; before he could act, Voldemort disappears once more, darkness enveloping around them.

.

.

.

Harry. Here, drink this. You’re in shock.

Shacklebolt gave him a hot cup to hold in his hands. Harry took it blindly, his eyes focused on the wall across from him. He was waiting.

Did they catch him? he asked hoarsely. All day he had been sitting in the waiting room, not for the dead body of his godson but for the killer to be dragged into custody by the Aurors, waiting, his wand tucked in his pockets. He didn’t care if he was to go to Azkaban for his spell. He was ready. His grip on the cup tightened.

Shacklebolt shook his head. No sign of him, he sighed. I think he’s long gone. You should go home and rest, Harry. I’ll tell you if there’s any news, but for now…

I—I can’t go back. His voice broke. He hated how he sounded weak, felt repulsed at the way Shacklebolt looked at him with pity. I need to get Teddy. He—

He’s in the morgue now. Shacklebolt talked to him like a child, carefully and gently. Harry wanted to throw something at him _. I’ve been in a war too, just like you, I know what death is, I just didn’t think it would happen to me anymore, not to anyone I loved, don’t you dare—_ But he tightened his lips and listened to what the older man had to say.

You can see him once he’s cleaned up, It’s shouldn’t be long now. You should go, Harry. Sleep. It’ll look better in the morning.

And it was the Shacklebolt had said those empty reassurances to him that made him stand up: dubious and doubtful, wondering if Harry would ever be better after this. Wondering if Harry would indeed, stand up and face the world another day. Shacklebolt added in, We could get some Aurors to patrol around your place, if you think…

No. Harry shook his head. He was coming for me. He pointed his wand at me. Before he took Teddy. I saw.

Shacklebolt paused. Ah, he said. I see.

He did not ask why a man would target a little boy in favor of a veteran and a hero. There were many who wished to see Harry dead, who wished to pay back their grievances from the years long past, all hidden in the shadows and lurking about, waiting for an opportunity to strike. But Teddy, he was innocent of the past histories that made up today’s world.

Perhaps his enemies had always known Harry better than he ever did himself. Perhaps his enemies knew that there were things he held higher than his own pointless life. He did not bother to voice out such pointless epiphanies.

.

.

.

Harry stares at the place where Voldemort had stood, his hands shaking. The fire fails to withstand the cold, wet dew in the hanging branches and soon flicker out. The smell of ash drifts with the docile wind. A tree somewhere crashes onto the ground and makes a soft thud as it falls down onto the snow.

_Gone._

_Gone._

_Gone._

_I could have killed him, mangled him, he was_ weak _, he was ready for slaughter…_

“Potter,” Malfoy speaks. And that voice, it’s all just very wrong. High-pitched and shallow and wheedling. He feels drained. He wants to scream. You’re so young, Malfoy, you’re only eleven, Teddy could have been your age, he could have lived, he was about to go to Hogwarts very soon, and here you are, and I saved you while I couldn’t save Teddy—why couldn’t I, I always seem to have a grand time saving your sorry arse and I can’t—didn’t—

He sucks in a cold breath of air. Breathe, Harry.

“Well, then,” he says dully. He does not sound like a child. He sounds distant and cold, callous of his surroundings and towards the boy who is shivering besides him. “We found the unicorn. Light up a spark, will you? Might as well get back to our dorms.”

“Potter, the unicorn—you—” Malfoy stutters, his teeth chattering in the cold wintery air, and he glares at Harry. He looks on, unfazed. “We just saw the—Potter, that man we saw. You know who it was, and you just—damn the bloody unicorn, you just saw him! That man—”

“You saw him before,” he cuts off. He waves his wand and sets off the spark, not sparing a second look at the dead unicorn lying on the ground. “In the locket. In Sirius’s place, do you remember? Your golden hour, saving me from your young Dark Lord.”

Malfoy sputters. “You—I—Potter, if you have a death wish, don’t drag me into your schemes!”

“I don’t, not really,” Harry says. He sighs and looks up at the sky. What does he want? A fire to burn this place, perhaps. Where could Voldemort have escaped to? He could chase after Quirrell back to the school grounds. They could duel out in the open. But to do so would to actually make Quirrell acknowledge the existence of Voldemort inside his head.

 _Subtlety was never your strongest strengths,_ Riddle agrees.

“I didn’t save you that time!” Malfoy screeches. “I told you—just moments before, just tonight in fact—I—Potter, if you’re going to die—you, you idiot, you saved me.” He says the last words as if it suddenly hit him, dumbly and numbly. Completely out of breath, Malfoy repeats the obvious. “You just saved me. From—from. You know.”  
Harry shakes his head. He would try to roll his eyes as well, but he is too tired and irked to actually manage a spiteful comeback. He wants to trudge up the castle and snuggle up his warm bedcovers and dream of Teddy’s ghost. Perhaps he can craft up an eloquent apology to the dead. “Yes, how magnificent of me,” he mutters. He gestures impatiently with his hand and takes his first steps to get out of the small clearing.

Malfoy takes his arm.

“What?” he snarls.

Malfoy looks at him with an eerie solemnity. It is an alien look on this spoiled heir, and yet, Harry had once seen this grave expression on another face, that in normal circumstances, should in no way resemble Malfoy’s own.

Ron had looked upon him as such, after Harry had attacked the troll and accidently saved Ron’s life. They became friends, everything worked out nicely for them in the end, and so he did not put much thought to Ron’s words at that time. But before then. There was a moment that Harry dismissed, a moment that did not make sense to him and he therefore erased from his mind.

“I owe you a life debt,” Malfoy says.

He says it in a more reluctant manner than Ron had, and yet it is no less solemn than Ron’s autumn words. The wind seems to speak along with the boy’s vows, and the words seem to hold a grounded presence that had not been felt in the castle walls. Each syllable floats clearly into the air and sears itself into his mind. There is too much intent behind those words.

Harry frowns a little and shakes his head.

“I don’t care to bring a life debt,” he says shortly, looking at the empty forest clearing.

Malfoy sneers, dropping down the queer expression that had unnerved him.  “I know you don’t care, Potter,” he spits, “As if pureblood honor would mean anything to you. You don’t even know half of the things you do and you just go ahead and do them anyway, don’t you? But I—”

“Fuck off,” Harry cuts off Malfoy’s rant. His head hurts, and he would like to claw at something, anything really, to fend off the anger lurking inside him. He smells the unicorn blood wafting up uncomfortably around them and grits his teeth. _Magic is. To dust we came and to dust we shall return._ Narcissa ‘s voice echoing inside his head, old bedtime stories given to a child Malfoy, a woman’s soft lullaby who spoke of stories Harry had never known. Magical rituals and pureblood intent, and a world that he loved desperately but had never really known.

“Fuck Malfoy, I don’t give a crap about your pureblood shit because your father still chose the losing side all those years ago, and—” And he turns his wand, before Malfoy could utter another word. Stops himself. Takes a deep breath. Do not lose your shit, Harry. I did not just save his life to kill him accidentally.

He lowers his hand and turns around sharply. “Whatever. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to act like a berk.”

He expects the apology would do it, as he walks briskly, resolutely, allowing his mind to concentrate, think about where it had all gone wrong, why Voldemort had known what he would have done, even before he launched his attack, how Voldemort had always known—

and Malfoy, utter fool and thorny thing he is, sticks by his side and matches his pace soon enough. He does not seem particularly taken aback by his outburst.

“Why are you apologizing?” Malfoy demands, hurrying along his rapid footsteps, “And for the record, Potter, you really should do away with your anger issues. Is this another one of your Muggle things?”

No, it has to do with war and split souls of dead men. Harry bites back his scathing retort until it hurts. He marches on without even bothering to reply to that, and Malfoy keeps his mouth shut after a lone wolf howls from somewhere deep inside the forest.

They walk out of the clearing.

Filch awaits them, looking disappointed at how they came out intact and had not died a gruesome death in the forest.

“Lucky first shot, lads,” he sneers, a lantern dangling from his grisly arm.

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

In the end, there is simply no choice left to him. To Dumbledore he goes. One powerful wizard for another.

He leaves a note with Hermione apologizing once again for his absence, his lack of explanations on everyone’s behalf, and a promise to talk to her tomorrow morning. He makes Malfoy repeats his words again and again until Malfoy is rolling his tired eyes. Harry warns the other boy not to add in unnecessary insults that would have Hermione throwing a hex at him.

“As if I’m that much of an idiot, Potter,” Malfoy says. He is back to his sniping persona and takes to sneering at the state of Harry’s robes. Inside the safety of the castle, it is all too easy to forget about the cold wind and uncanny vows made by a pureblood. It is easy to dismiss the soft, melodic voice of Narcissa and her bedtime stories, about a dead Teddy and a young Malfoy. He is deceived of peace, submerged in ancient Hogwarts magic and its incantations. He finds it safe to smile again.

“Just making sure you’re keeping yourself alive,” Harry says lightly, and Malfoy makes a great show of turning around and stomping back to the dorms, to the great disappoint of Filch. He, Harry, takes the highest stairway in the castle, forfeiting the dungeons. His footsteps echo in the lonely halls.

You go to that old menace always as a last resort, do you know that? Riddle muses. Always at the end of everything when even Dumbledore can’t prevent your blunders.

He helps me greatly in my self-esteem, refusing to put me at your level, Harry thinks spitefully, purposefully stomping through the several corridors and staircases up to the headmaster’s office. It helps him stave off the dread building inside of him.

.

.

.

“He’s back, sir,” Harry tells Dumbledore, the moment he sees a flash of brightness. Fawkes coos at him.

He is out of breath and feels impatient for the words to come tumbling out of his chest so that Dumbledore may do something about it. The rush of words and the familiar desperation greets him like an old friend. “Voldemort’s back.”

Dumbledore gestures him into a chair and summons a tea tray. A tea kettle boils merrily next to them and Harry wants to throw the scalding hot water out of the window. Silence reigns. He wants to do something with his wand. He speaks again. “Sir?”

“My boy. What a late surprise. Have you just come back from your detention?” Dumbledore inquires mildly. He is forthcoming with his pleasantries. His face does not show any astonishment at having a first year Slytherin marching up to his office at midnight bursting with perilous news. “I did tell Professor Snape that the Forbidden Forest was no task meant for first years…but he seemed very adamant that you would not find it a difficulty.”

“I—no, it wasn’t hard,” Harry says. He tries again. “Professor—”

“I heard you, Harry.” Dumbledore smiles a little at him, and waves his wand to pour out two cups of steaming hot tea. Harry numbly takes one. “I apologize—old habits, I simply must start with asking about your welfare before anything else. Call it an old man’s folly. And as of now, we are missing one Defense of the Dark Arts professor for the upcoming term, but here we are, shouldering on.” Dumbledore takes a small sip from his cup. “My, my. Professor Quirrell didn’t take his time to leave us all a syllabus for the next poor professor who’s to take his place, I’m afraid.”

He shakes his head ruefully but overall, does not look much too shaken up about a Dark Lord who had been dead for eleven years. There is no surprise on his face. Harry tries to hear any hint of disappointment or incredulity, but he finds none. “And you, my boy? Are you quite well?”

“Me? Oh, never better,” Harry says absent-mindedly. “But, Professor, the thing is—Quirrell—that is, Professor Quirrell, sorry, he wasn’t really him, it was Voldemort the whole time, and we really should—”

“And you just met him in the forest, didn’t you?” Dumbledore rests his back against his chair, his bright blue eyes fixated on Harry. His voice is soothing. “Quite a shock. It’s the first time you’ve seen him, isn’t that right?”

The question sounds doubtful and inquiring. It’s a probing trap, he realizes. Harry remembers to let out a slow breath of air and steady his voice.

“Oh,” he says dumbly. “I. Well. I did see him when I was a baby, sir.” He is careful with his words. Hermione’s subtle warning comes to his ears. Suspicions. It is possible that Snape did not tell him about where his prodigal powers came from to the headmaster. Then again, Snape was a bigot who only existed as a hero within the biographical pages back in his timeline, stashed in a neat pile at Grimmauld Place.

“Yes, yes. Of course. Forgive me, I merely thought—but no matter.” Dumbledore clucks his tongue gently, and sets down his tea cup. His words are chosen with the same precision as Harry had done a moment ago. Harry sees the furrowing of those white brows, and his suspicions are confirmed.

Harry drinks his tea. He voices out neither a confirmation or a rejection of words. The old wizard does not press him.

“He’s back, then,” Dumbledore muses, almost to himself. “I did expect this day, I’m afraid, but not quite so soon…and not quite in a blatant fashion. He was not the one for flair and dramatics, from what I remember.”

“I suppose,” Harry says, “desperate times called for desperate measures.”

“Desperate?” Dumbledore inquires mildly.

I was trying to kill him too quickly. Harry swallows down his words. He instead lets out a helpless little shrug and tries his best to look bewildered.

“He was drinking the unicorn’s blood,” he offers.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “And I would have thought that the Stone would be his priority, but it seems as if he found another way—you do know, of course, that your young friends Miss Granger and Mr Weasley went looking for the Stone?” His blue eyes twinkle. “I did not know whether to congratulate them on their fine success or give them detention for their outrageous behavior.”

Harry frowns. _Yes_ , a voice that is not quite Hermione or Ron or even Riddle reminds him snidely, _this is partly why you came galloping up his office, because you thought he knew of your predicament and wanted his help. You didn't want him to know, but at the same time, you needed his advice and rules, because where would you be without his guidance?_

“You told them…that you trusted me,” he says slowly. He makes sure that his eyes are focused on Fawkes. “I never told you that I knew about the Stone.”

“Oh, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice is fond and grave, all at once. “You took an interest in young Riddle, and so I assumed, naturally, that you were to be interested in the same desires as that young boy had once sought. Know thy enemy, as we would have said in the old days. I knew there was something off about Professor Quirrell myself. I’m not the least bit surprised you caught onto it as well.” He pauses. “I would do you a great disservice,” he continues, “if I continually treat you as a child, my boy. It’s your magic, I’m afraid. It’s one of the first things I’ve noticed about you.”

He jerks his head and for the first time, meets Dumbledore’s eyes. The man replies his surprised look with a sad smile.

“I was not planning to look through your mind, Harry,” he says quietly, and Harry feels ashamed for suspecting that of the old man. “Although I do not blame your caution…Professor Snape had come to me, at the very beginning of the term when you were just Sorted. He demanded that I cast a charm on you to reveal your magic. No first year should wield such power, he was very adamant to point out, and I was inclined to agree.”

“He—” Harry clears his throat. His voice is hoarse. “He thought I was an imposter?”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore says diplomatically. “More likely, he was being careful. And then—nothing after that. No more knocks late at night bellowing about your state of unnaturalness. The next time I saw him, he was teaching you spells that have not been seen since Voldemort’s war. And so, I made some guesswork.”

“Oh,” Harry says dumbly. So Snape hadn’t told. Snape was still on neutral grounds with him, whatever that may count for. ( _Very little, I do mourn for your assumptions that will eventually lead us all to disaster_ , he imagines Snape sneering.) He forfeits his previous assessment of the man as a bigot. There was hope for them yet. Dumbledore waits for him to say more. When Harry does not follow up with a more intelligent remark, Dumbledore prods him gently.

“I am curious, of course,” Dumbledore continues lightly, “Why you are here, searching for the Stone. Or why you may be here at all. I have my guesses of who you are or, to be more precise, where you might have been before you came here. From your tidbits that you have hinted at. But no matter. I am merely, shall I say, curious.” Dumbledore pauses. “Of your intentions. Your plans.”

Harry feels that torrid waves of words threatening to jumble out of his mouth. He barely reins it in.

“I want to prevent him from coming back,” he says. It feels violent, the way he announces it, and he makes sure his voice is steady. He can’t sound mad and unstable. He isn’t. “I thought—that would’ve been obvious.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agrees. Placid to Harry’s agitation. “I merely meant how. Forgive an old man’s misgivings. One cannot help but have them.”

“I want—I just want. To prevent him from coming back.” Harry draws back his emotions and the clawing sensation he feels at the back of his throat. “Because, if he comes back, then. Then. We have another war, don’t we, sir. I mean, we’ll be fighting a war. You had a war, just a decade ago—well, we’ll soon have one again unless we stop him.” 

“And did you fight that future war, Harry?” Dumbledore’s voice is not probing, not demanding. He gives a weary smile towards Harry, as if he already knows. He is only confirming his guesses. And as Dumbledore had once remarked years ago, his guesses were very good, almost always right.

So Harry finds himself replying. “Yes,” he says. It is an aggressive admission, a vile spit on the tongue. He is angry—not at Dumbledore, surely, but at the absurd situation he had placed himself in. He had thought to waltz back in time to straighten out the world before it was too late, all on his own time, with no help from anyone. Was that his hubris speaking, or his self-sacrificing nature that made him brave out the task?

( _There really isn’t much of a difference now,_ Ron admonishes.)

“Is that so?” Dumbledore is silent after that, rubs a hand over his eyes before he speaks again. When he speaks, he says words that Harry had heard once before; in a dream, inside a grey, bare room with lukewarm tea and a crazy, angry murderer. “Well then. I was afraid you would have said something like this. But, my boy. I don't think you have truly seen war.”

When Harry hears the words, the first thought he has is not rational. He thinks he is once again in a dream, that Dumbledore will soon morph into Voldemort with his red eyes and cackling laughter. But he blinks, and blinks again, but Dumbledore does not change, merely looks old and weary, waiting for Harry to speak.

“I don't?” Harry whispers. He feels his anger before he can speak it.

 _So_ , Riddle echoes sardonically _, there are some things that the old man and I agree on._

Dumbledore retains that sad, quizzical smile. “No,” he repeats. “Harry, you cannot create and destruct a war with only two players. You cannot face Tom alone and call it a war. Surely you knew.”

He does not answer.

There are things he wants to shout at the top of his lungs: there was a prophecy, old man (Riddle’s cold sneer taking over him), there was a vision from a stupid coot who said that I was to defeat Voldemort, or he me—one would destroy the other, one would vanquish and one would fall. It was a prophecy that could have been nothing, but became something inevitable when Voldemort tried to kill me, this is a prophecy of events that you know about, and you, sitting across from me and telling me about the definitions of war and treating me as if I did not see—why, you’re no different from that bastard Riddle—

 _I beg to differ_ , Riddle interjects, but Harry squashes him out from his mind and rants on. His mind is a furnace.

—the war is not about me and him, sure, but it cannot be said without that either. It’s mostly about Voldemort and his hubris, and my need to die, and his need to cheat death—

 _Harry, stop,_ Hermione says tiredly, _He’s only saying that you should have asked him for help. He is saying that you alone cannot defeat Voldemort. He is asking you to depend on him. He is worried about you. As he always was._

As a sacrifice, Harry screams. As a chess piece; what am I then, bishop, knight, rook? No, might as be the Queen, or does that go to Snape? There was a reason why I asked Snape for help, he at least understands, he knows—

 _As Albus Dumbledore would not, when he had fought the wars of Grindelwald and mine?_ Riddle says.

 “Harry,” Dumbledore says, gentle and kind. “Your magic feels agitated. I did not mean for you to feel…unnerved. Please, my boy. I do apologize. Look at me.”

He does not look.

A terse silence follows. There is no second attempt at an apology, for which Harry is profoundly grateful.

Instead Dumbledore asks, observing him like a fragile thing he was most definitely not, “Have you read the book that I have given you last time?” Harry shakes his head, glaring down at his hands. “I did not say this when I gave it to you then; I thought it would have made me sound a little too proud. But those are my words, Harry, a research I tried to finish and could not. I had never found quite the right time to send it along to a bookstore. But nevertheless, I do believe that you would find it worth your time.”

His voice sounds defeated and sad. A lifetime of small failures and many duels all for naught. Harry does not try to fathom the burden Dumbledore chose to carry, the ghosts he must wrestle with in his own dreams.

.

.

.

The book is a thin one, a faded old thing. There are only words upon words, some in different slanted handwritings, all written in faded yellow parchments. There is also a stray photograph tucked between the various handwritten accounts of various people, but nothing more. A man is wearing a familiar set of striped rags. He smirks at the camera, his eyes comically wild and alive even if his face is yellowed with age. Harry flinches back and briefly glances at the name written in a loopy scrawl at the bottom corner of the photo.

_Antonin Dolohov. At the time of his arrest. [date unknown]_

He was a Death Eater, one of Voldemort’s first few loyal followers. There is nothing more he knows about the man. He takes apart more pages. A few loose sheets of parchment fall on the floor. The whole thing is shabbily kept and frayed around the edges as Harry lets his hand smoothen out the cover. The cover is the most curious thing of all. It does not seem as any respectable bookbinder would have made this book. The bindings are loose and the covering is dusty and dull. It is worn with neglect and age, and the book cracks as he opens the first pages.

In the empty common room, he sits down and reads.

 .

.

. 

 **_1945: The Birth and Rise of Lord Voldemort_ **  

 

> Dear Readers,
> 
> I must confess first and foremost that the facts within these pages are flimsy at best. Although I have strived to keep everything factual and accurate, careful not to tarnish the memories and records of those who wished to be heard and recorded, the man whose life I attempted to recreate was an elusive wizard in his own right, with few surviving witnesses, seldom ready to offer their versions of truths. Those who had once known him did not wish to relive the memories that they felt was shameful, while those who wished to speak of him had stories that now seem too fantastical to be true. The man himself wished nothing definite to be stated about his life; he was an avid reader of myths and the unknown, and he believed that he would be one day creating his own legend. In a way he may have succeeded. What remains are half-truths and half-lies, nothing that may humanize him so that we may begin to understand.  
> 
> The life of Tom Marvolo Riddle (whom many would be familiar as Lord Voldemort, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) was therefore not an easy one to trace, and any bias and misrepresentations I might have made on these remaining records are entirely mine and mine alone. The authenticity of these testimonies and statements that I have collected cannot be confidently established as factual truth, nor can I vouch for a definitive recreation of events. Better men than I have attempted to write down an exact biography of Lord Voldemort and have failed. There are very few facts that survive in the life of this man, and I will attempt to give a brief explanation before I proceed to the ambiguities that shroud his life.
> 
> Tom Marvolo Riddle was born on the 31st of December 1926, at Wool’s Orphanage in London, as the son of Merope Riddle and Tom Riddle Sr. Born as a small infant and continually undernourished as a child, he would not know of the wizarding world until his Hogwarts letter in 1938. There is little we know of his childhood, even less of his adult years after Hogwarts. When he returns to England in the eyes of the public, he is no longer a young man, but a wizard so terrifying that no household would voluntarily state his given name. The only solid evidence we have from his life, therefore, all comes through his Hogwarts years, between 1938 through 1945.
> 
> Riddle was a brilliant pupil. Many professors felt kindly to this quiet and studious Muggle child (later revealed to be a half-blood), who excelled in his classes and shone brilliantly even amongst his pureblood peers. He had many admirers and followers, all whom wished to emulate his great deeds and his greater crimes. Nothing was traced back towards him, and nothing ill was said during his years at schooling, in which he showed promise in subjects that included, but not limited to, Potions, Transfiguration, Charms and Ancient Runes. It was only after he graduated that some rumors circulated about, but even then, only a few were willing to testify anything to prove (or refute) such anecdotes.
> 
> To some readers, it may come off as a surprise that he was also an excellent scholar when it came to Muggle Studies. Riddle lived during a time with the Muggle world was amidst a terrible war, swept up in our own war against Grindelwald, and Riddle took great pleasure in researching and following up the German troops as they invaded across Poland, France and eventually the Soviet Union.
> 
> It is this particular fascination that Riddle possessed that motivated me to take a conjecture following the years after Tom Riddle’s student days. We only know that he disappeared after a brief job as a salesclerk in Borgin and Burkes, and from thereon, we do not know whether he chose to venture out to the Far North to conquer the old magic of the Norse gods, or traveled to the Asiatic countries to seek the wisdom from the goddesses who once summoned chaos and destruction. And yet I have my own guesses as to where Riddle might have ended up, and thus it is why, as of 1945, Riddle coined himself officially his new name, a name that had been informally spoken to his friends during his school years but now ready to be known to the wider world.
> 
> With the end of an old Dark Lord, arose a new one. It is a story that would have fascinated the bright wizard, for Lord Voldemort was his own mythmaker before anything else. After the fall of Grindelwald and the Muggle dictators, Riddle would have traveled to the continent to see entire countries laid in ruins as a result of the terrible war Muggleborns and Wizarding folk alike have suffered. What he chose to do with such information is anyone’s guess.
> 
> I part with you readers with one last remark. It is perhaps crucial to note that Riddle had hated Grindelwald’s war. That did not stop him from being fascinated about the Dark Lord before his time, although to this day it is unclear whether he hated Grindelwald for the destruction he had wrought upon our country, or because Riddle could not stand anyone to take away his designated place in history.

I remain yours,

Albus Dumbledore

 

**_[Statement of [deleted] Cole, Matron of Wool’s Orphanage, transcribed and recorded, date unknown]_ **

 

Tom was a queer boy right from the start. He was brought to us by a dying woman, may her pagan soul rest at peace. She wouldn’t see a priest for the last rites, even when we implored her to (we take that thing very seriously, we have _standards_ )—should’ve known there was something fishy from the start. She died immediately as he came into this world.

He was a tiny, vile thing—monstrous. He wouldn’t cry like the other children, even when the hard times hit and most of them went hungry for weeks for a time. There was no food to spare in those early winter years, and then of course, we had the Germans starting yet another war not soon after the first one…the orphanage relied on benefactors and charity; we didn’t have much to pass around. And still, that boy always somehow managed. He seemed to have extra portions in his first few years, although how that would have happened I don’t know to this day. I punished him mightily at first, but soon gave up. He wouldn’t beg me for forgiveness and didn’t repeat the prayers our priest expected him to. When I belted him he would look up with me, and I didn’t know what that tiny child was thinking about.

What did I hit him for? Those things are hard to talk about. Not because he didn’t deserve it—because those things, you needed to see them. He talked politely, always a quiet boy, but it was the way he looked at me and the children sometimes. Like vermin. Is that too strong? No, no—exactly that. Like rats. I should know, he looked at those same rats that sometimes nested in our orphanage. And then of course, there was the case with the rabbit, and the trip down the seaside. I must have mentioned them; those events were unexplainable. You don’t forget things like that. Everyone knew it was Tom, but there was no proof. Tom would do that little smile he did when he knew we wouldn’t catch him, thought himself awfully clever.

And then that school he went to—it made his head bloat. Came back a changed boy. He was downright nasty in those short summers he was here, locked up in his room and refusing to come out. When he did, it was to mock the little kids that pestered him about. They soon learned to keep clear of him. I had a sharp word with him once or twice, but he would stare down at me until I huffed off. Insolent boy he was.

The war came—he didn’t go. Our country at war, imagine! Those terrible Germans, and the bombs…. the boys here, we taught them to love this country, we raised them to know their duty. And what did Tom do? He stayed. He was of age and he acted like a spoiled child. A right lording, he was.

I remember the day he left. I wish I didn’t. He was all packed up, very convenient timing too, I’d say. The war was over, just over, and he didn’t have to go overseas anymore. And I was trying to be friendly, since it wouldn’t do to part with sore feelings—I asked him where he was going to go now, now that he was of age, polite pleasantries, of course, not that I was about to stop him. Goodness no, he was free to go anywhere.

He looked at me all strangely. Oh nowhere that’ll interest you, ma’am, he replied. He made that funny gesture again. I then persisted because I was curious. He eventually told me he was going to Germany. Germany! I barely refrained from giving him a good shouting. That wretched boy, where we he when our troops died in Normandy, marching their brutal way towards Berlin! I almost slapped him—but then, he smirked at me, he knew just how to rile me up. So I just said many happy trips, a safe voyage, and all those necessary goodbyes I give out to all my children.

That was the last of what I’ve heard of him. Funny boy, never much liked him. He was guilty of everything sinister and evil that lurked this place, God bless his absent soul.

 

**_[Statement of Armando Dippet, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, transcribed and recorded, March 12 th, 1965]_ **

 

(Really Albus, I don’t know why you insist on such formalities.) [ _transcribed pages are marked by Headmaster Dippet’s scrawl on the margins._ ]

Mr Riddle was a bright pupil, possibly one of the best minds to enter these walls (with the exception of you, Albus, of course) and certainly deserved the top honors he merited upon his graduation. He did marvelous magic with his wand, top of all his classes. (You _must_ know this; you’ve taught the boy yourself!)

We had several tea sessions throughout the course of his schooling; he was very adamant that he wished to stay during the summer holidays and I was always regretful that he could not. Such a gifted boy, such potential. Hoarce always spoke highly of that boy and wagered me on how he would be the youngest Minister in our generation. (Yes, Albus, Hoarce truly did think Riddle could have been a Master at Potions as well, it was not just wishy-washy talk.)

Curiosities? He had them, our Riddle. We had pleasant chats from time to time about wandlore and Muggle history. (And he was very close to finding about your relationship with Grindelwald, too, did you know that? Nothing seems to get past him.) The first few years, he came to me, I think, because he was lonely. I obliged him—but now that I think about it, perhaps it was the other way around, a bright young boy trying to keep to the company of an aging wizard. He asked me about our world and how it functioned, spoke quite apologetically to me about his ignorance, which I was quick to assure him was no unusual. Being in Slytherin wasn’t easy for that boy for the first few years. He didn’t know the traditions that predated books and scribes, and he often sought my advice about the pureblood ways and mechanisms. I told him such things were obsolete and outdated, but he insisted…and so our sessions consisted of talks about the old Magic and blood rituals.

That was _all._ (Where you picked up your suspicions on the boy, I would never know.) There is nothing more I have to say of the boy. I shall miss his bright wit and sharp mind when he is gone.

 

**_[Statement of Galatea Merrythought, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, transcribed and recorded, October 31 th, 1982]_ **

 

I’ll talk one thing about that boy, and one thing only. It’s all a very long time ago and I have no wish to expand on memories that are now all quite fruitless to anyone who may want pursue his story, but alas, you have always been a dear exception to the rule. I write this only as a respect for your capabilities, Albus, as well as my own fondness for you as a once dear pupil. So here this is. It is a mere coincidence that this letter is dated on the anniversary of his demise, but I believe it is a nice touch, and as I remember, you were fond of such gentle ironies.

The boy was a genius. There would be no denying that; to do so would to render my own words as falsehood, and it is most essential that I recount the account of events in an objective manner. He was very charming in those times, and he had a way with asking all the wrong questions and justifying his words with the right touch. I was only curious, he would insist to me, just when moments before he asked me spells that I suspect come from book on necromancy, blood sacrifice, and other horrid things that are most definitely not for wandering eyes. I wish I could say I denied him his probing. I did not—no, I could not. He was too eager to know, so radiating with what magic could do.

Should we have known then? Now with everything under the bridge, sometimes I wonder if we should have defined that hunger for something else other then pure academic interest. But no matter.

As you are aware, The Defense Against the Dark Arts is a fine line between what might be and what should never be. Take a step out of the designated boundaries, and one shall be dealing with malicious spells instead of defensive ones. Take a foul intent upon the spellwork, and one may kill, instead of reviving, a poor soul. You surely know all this at your old age, and yet I feel that sometimes I had not emphasized this concept of grayness quite enough in my classes. For where else would the boy have gotten his ideas?

There are many spells for what he was seeking: _ad augusta per angusta, sum quod eris_ , perhaps even _nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae fuit_ –the list goes on. [ _translated from the Latin, respectively: to rise to a high position overcoming hardships, I am what you will be, there has been no great wisdom without an element of madness_ ]

I hesitate to clearly define this spellwork, or incantations, for the ambiguities are clear. These are old magic, ones not contained for wandwork and once said to have been uttered by the highest gods when they searched for wisdom and power, offering their lives as their sacrifice. Intent is what would have matter, and one must be willing to sacrifice something to gain such monstrous power. In many of the stories, only death is the acceptable gift.

I know what you are thinking, and that had been my greatest fear when the war broke out. Did that boy aspire to be those old wizards who achieved such power? The boy was fascinated with a queer hunger that I have not seen in many students. The words were a myth, such spells didn’t exist, and yet there that boy was all those years ago, searching for something. But for what? His research was futile, I knew, but I had no heart to tell him such disappointing words. I allowed him to search for what he wished. He came to me to ask me about issues I have long ago dismissed, and I believed that he too, would surely dismiss them as sentimental lore.

I am afraid to say he did not. Of anything I can tell you for certainty, it is this: he had gone to the far edge of the world to seek what was the impossible. And he had succeeded.

 

**_[Statement of Billy Stubbs, [deleted], transcribed and recorded, date unknown (presumed to be after 1945)]_ **

 

I don’t really like talking about him. Nobody does, not those who knew him at least. Even me, I don’t feel so good even all these years later. It’s a curse, is what it is. He’s the curse, has been, from the very beginning.

Devil spawn, we called him. He knew that and didn’t mind back in those days—maybe he did have a bit of humor in him, maybe he liked that power he had over us. I wouldn’t know. Later we called him a Jew. Looked like one, didn’t he? When that war broke out and we saw all those pictures. With those dark features and that stupid nose. He wasn’t ugly, no, but he had that off-set look about him. He wasn’t us, we were all keen to agree on that. So that’s what we called him. Once called him a Juden, thought that was a real hoot.

Now that, that he didn’t like. It was during that war, and there was news about Kindertransports and refugees, people coming in like mad from our borders. We told him to go back where he came from—Poland, Czechoslovakia, wherever Germany was in power at that time. Looked like Hitler was taking over the world and we all chose the wrong side after all with Churchill. He was furious when we mocked him. He had that glint in his eyes, it’s—it’s a bit hard to explain. Whatever they taught him in that stupid school of his, it made him look a bit mad. So eventually we stopped. Not getting scared over.

Sometime he talked in gibberish to us, told us that we better be damn glad his world was such a law abiding piece of shit. My words, not his. He sometimes told us he was a pureblood, whatever the hell that meant. Maybe meant that he wasn’t a Jew, but who cared?

We didn’t laugh at him outright, but he was a funny kid. All posh and strutting about in that damned place when he was just one of us, abandoned and left to rot. What was he doing, putting up airs of all things? He was picky with his food and barely ate, but stole our bread just for the fun of it. Maybe he fed it to that snake of his. The matrons didn’t know, but he kept a snake in that attic room of his, which he had because no one wanted to sleep with him. Amy swore once that he hissed at that creature. Insane little [ _deleted_ ]. He killed my rabbit too, not that I hanker on about it. I used to hate him for that, but then I grew up, the war came, and I conscripted. Country and all that. He didn’t—course he didn’t. Compared to the Nazis, Tom was a nobody.

After that, I returned and Tom was there. He was going off to see that damn world, he told me. Yeah, my words. He must have said something along the lines of: adieu, adieu, I am off to see the grandeur and beauty that the world has to offer me!

He talks like those old periodical ladies without the dramatic fluttering. Maybe he should, never really got his double-meanings behind his words.

He asked me how Germany was and I told him it was a hellhole, the Soviet tanks bulldozed the shit out of that country after they bombed it to splinters. He asked me if I had ever been to Iceland. I told him, well, let’s see, the war was fought in France and Italy and maybe North Africa, but I don’t think I ever made it into Iceland. Bloddy frekking cold place, isn’t it? I said this all with a very sarcastic air and Tom smiled at me painfully. He has that way of smiling that leaves me feeling like a simpleton.

Mrs Cole was over the top about Tom going off to Germany, but I wasn’t very interested. If he wants to mingle with the trashy sort and communists lurking about there, why, he can be my guest and a solider might just do us all a favor and shoot him dead.

 

**_[Torn parchment from an essay in Muggle Studies, presumed to be Riddle’s handwriting, date unclear]_ **

 

…and it is said that Odin had many names: all-father, the lord of the slain, the gallows god. To gain wisdom he offered himself to himself; he hung from the tree of Yaggdrasill, the axis of the world and the living tree that holds the nine worlds to each other. For nine days and nights he hung and peered down at the worlds below. On the point of death, he looked down and saw the runes reveal itself to him, and he seized them, screaming as he fell down.

This is the story of how Odin gained his wisdom and power: only through his own death could he obtain his great magic that enabled him to be the highest god of the Norse gods. From his death and sacrifice he learned nine songs of magic and the eighteen runes of spellwork that enabled him to become a terrible wizard in the Far North. The old Norsemen feared Odin for his terrible and omnipotent powers, and his great demands for human sacrifice. He was a relentless pursuer of magic and power, and for this he was all too willing to give up his life, a life he knew would result in rebirth and transformation.

In his wisdom he sought to prevent Ragnarok, the end of everything, twilight of the gods, even as he knew that the end was inevitable. He sought to stall his final death [ _scratched out_ ]

[ _on the magins, also presumed to be Riddle’s handwriting_ ] why eighteen runes of spellwork?—in old Norse mythology, nine is considered the most powerful number, as it is the end of the singular digit, the symbol of death and resurrection—and so eighteen, the twice as much as that powerful number [ _discontinued_ ]

 

[ ** _Antonin Dolohov Interview with Aurors, Rough Draft of Transcription, Date of Interview [deleted], Additional Note: Antonin Dolohov is awaiting trial for Azkaban for the murder of twenty Muggles and the deaths of Fabian and Gideon Prewett. The first ten pages of the transcription has not been included for confidential information regarding Dolohov’s victims.]_**

 

Q: You have followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named from the early onset of his quest?

A: Yes.

Q: What was he trying to find?

A: There’s a lot of things my Lord wanted to find. You’ll have to be a bit more specific.

Q: What was he trying to find in Oslo, in Honningsvag, in Hammerfest. Need I go on?

A: Please do.

Q: We know from sources that he stayed quite a bit in Norway. Then he moved onto Siberia. He went to Norilsk. We have that on record. We have _you_ on record.

A: But not him.

Q: No, but just as good as. You were with him?

A: I went alone.

Q: You were on this quest of his. He was looking for coming and you followed him.

A: This is getting tedious, Auror [ _deleted_ ]. My Lord was not searching for the Holy Grail. He was looking for something— but what, I cannot say.

Q: Because he has failed.

A: Because I do not know.

Q: He is dead, Dolohov.

A: Perhaps.

Q: He is gone. A boy defeated him, and here you are, ravaging havoc on those poor Muggleborns—

A: I believe you were asking me about what my recently deceased Lord wanted to find.

Q: I’m trying to make you see sense.

A: So it seems.

Q: Surely you didn’t kill those Muggles without a reason.

A: It is heartening to know that you possess a high opinion of me, Auror.

Q: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named traveled to those places for a reason.

A: Shall you enlighten me?

Q: He was in Germany for a few years.

A: How surprising. I had not known that.

Q: You were with him—from the very beginning. We do not have all the dates, but let me read out your itineraries that we do have: you were in Berlin from 1946 through 1950, you then moved onto Prague until 1968, then you traveled to Oslo, and stayed there for a brief time, traveling up north, and then—you got yourself arrested by those Muggles.

A: It is heartwarming for me to think at how you must have labored through many Muggle security clearances for this evidence.

Q: I have clearance to use the Unforgiveable on you as well, Dolohov, so I would advise that you watch your words.

A: Those are my records. I acted alone.

Q: And was that the plan, getting arrested and being sent off to the gulags? The Soviets thought you were a spy.

A: Norilsk was enlightening. I met many men of the same deposition.

Q: The furthest northern cities and areas that the world has to offer, and you have only that to say? The Ministry is no fool, it knows what the north has to offer.

A: I beg to differ. If you knew the first thing about my Lord, it is that he does not care for companions and acts alone in his wanderings. I have no say, nor no reports, of his whereabouts.

Q: He commands, and you follow, is that it, then, is it?

A: As I have been trying to tell you.

.

.

.

The firelight flickering on the walls. The absolute stillness, save for his breathing. The smell of wood and ashes. There is more to read, but his eyes feel heavy and dull. He feels a sense of chill that comes from inside of him, and he curls up in the sofa. Darkness beckons to him. He relinquishes.

.

.

.

Oh, Riddle speaks. How kind of you to visit me.

He opens his eyes.

He is in a small, squalid room. He had seen this place before, not that long ago, when Riddle had offered him his childhood memories and mocked him for failing to understand what war was. This is Riddle’s attic room; the only home he had ever known before Hogwarts. A bare wooden floor, peeled walls, a slanted ceiling. Those are the conditions that Riddle greets him with. A rat scurries past his feet, and small particles of dust cover the surface of the windowsills. The windows are washed, but grimy with old age and chimney soot.

And Riddle smiles at him, a thin little smile, sitting on his small cot stashed in the corner of the room. The boy—is it right to call him that?—has a book laid on his lap. He does not seem very surprised to see Harry stumbling into his lone, cold room. He is older now, this child Riddle. No longer is he the tormentor of rabbits and little bullies, hissing at his pet snake and demanding Harry to show him little fireworks of magic. The boy had grown; his limbs gangly and sinewy. Pale and underfed, but still, he has grown into a thin, parched child. His face is clean of any soot and grime, so that he may greet unwanted visitors late at night with the full disdain of the nobility.

He is an inspiration for us all, Harry thinks dryly.

He turns, and sees a familiar set of Hogwarts robes hung neatly against a makeshift hook by the door. The Slytherin crest is clean and polished, attached between the folds of the robes impeccably. The cloth is hanged and straightened out, the only thing in the room to be regularly kept and tidy, it would seem.

You’ve gone to Hogwarts, I see. He makes sure his voice is mild and and his hand is placed firmly to his sides. Slytherin. They sorted you well.

It’s where all the gifted and cunning go, Riddle says softly. His voice is no longer petulant and demanding; instead, it has a pleasing flatness into it, as if Riddle was enacting manners to an unpleasant relative. You never told me about that school. But then again, I never knew whether you were quite real.

Harry lets out a grim smile. I showed you your first magic, he reminds the boy.

Yes, Riddle agrees. His eyes flash. A ball of fire. It was all quite ordinary. You could have told me about this school. About magic.

The last words are said in a hiss, and Harry realizes how cold the room is. The flat disinterest in Riddle’s voice is gone. The candlelight flickers against the bare walls and bounce vague shadows that hides Riddle’s face. He could be smirking or snarling, Harry doesn’t really know. Riddle is back in his orphanage room, and so it must be summertime. But the winds are drafty here, the night damp and cold.

Without a word, he waves his wand and allows a fire to burn in the empty fireplace. Gone are the days when Riddle would jump at this sudden noise. He looks bored by the act, even if his eyes follow the movement of Harry’s hand greedily. It is not magic itself that excites him now. It is power.

And how was it? Hogwarts, I mean. You’ve finished your first year, haven’t you?

Riddle does not respond immediately. Harry wonders why he is bothering with such trivial pleasantries. He has his wand out; only a swish and a flick away, and he could have this entire room on fire. He could summon up a green flare. He could make the boy scream.

It was interesting, the boy says slowly, testing the word. There were many things that I didn’t know of.

That’s good, then. You’re interested. You’re learning.

Yes. Riddle shrugs impatiently. But it’s not enough.

No?

They teach us—how to levitate feathers, how to make needles, it’s all very pointless and drab. There’s no system to it, nothing that’s very worthwhile. Riddle’s words stumble across each other, as if he was ready to burst with the indignity of having to learn such things. It’s so very useless.

And what, Harry says warily, is it that you want to learn?

Oh. Riddle smiles again, his pleasant mask slipping on naturally. Nothing much. Some odd curiosities here and there.

He becomes wary. Riddle stands up from his bed and walks towards him.

That fire, for instance. Riddle gestures at the fireplace. I’d like to make fires for myself, or any fire, really. Is that your specialty? You make fires to enchant me.

Not enchant, Harry says. You insisted.

You obliged me. Riddle gives him a little half-smile.

_Like vermin he looked at us. He did that little funny smile at me and I didn’t know what he was thinking half the time, we called him a Jew, he stole our meals, he mocked us and tormented us._

You can show me sometime, Riddle says. He seems to test out each word, rolling out the syllables. If you’re going to stay, of course.

I—no, Harry manages. He almost says yes. It’s that maddening smile. The boy is eager and curious. He is a boy; he keeps repeating to himself.

_But is he really just a boy? Is he only eager? Is it only curiosity that encourages him?_

Pity, Riddle says. He does not look very put out. It’s been a long time since you’ve visited me, so I thought I dreamt you up. You sometimes come inside my dreams. Curious, isn’t it? I barely know you—and still. It’s very vivid.

Riddle talks in a soft tone, as if musing to himself, and yet inviting Harry to hear his thoughts. Yes, Harry thinks, I can see why Professors would take to him, why peers would follow in his footsteps. This Riddle is a changed Riddle, not the angry little boy who would have hung rabbits in rafters and hissed at snakes to bite at strangers. This is a boy who knows how to manipulate the world around him with his charming smile and pale face. It is a handsome face, a radiant beauty that Harry had always acknowledged.

What do you dream about? Harry asks. Since Riddle seems to want that of him.

You try to kill me, Riddle says.

Harry does not take his eyes off Riddle.

Some days you come into my old room, Riddle continues. That was where Dumbledore found me. You come to tell me that I’m a wizard, and then set fire to my room. Other nights you give me no warning; you set off the room and hear me scream and I hear you laugh. Or you try to set the fire—but sometimes I stop you and try to kill you instead. Only. Riddle pauses. It seems that I can’t.

They’re such morbid dreams, Harry says. He makes sure his voice is light. I must have made a strong impression on you.

Yes. Riddle agrees. It was all so real. He smiles again, this time with his teeth showing. His eyes probe him. The boy is not a Legilimens yet. He meets those dark eyes resolutely.

And then, there are other dreams, Riddle says.

Of how I kill you? Harry asks.

Different ones, Riddle murmurs. He steps closer. I don’t know what to make of them.

The boy has not had his growing spurt yet, but somehow he seems to fill up the room with his movement. Harry grips his wand. Riddle comes to him, until he can see just how gaunt his cheeks are. The boy’s eyes are wide and open. Inquisitive.

Tell me about them, Harry whispers. His heart is pounding steadily inside his chest. The fire casts shadows around them. The crackling sound fills in the void of silence that follows.

Well, Riddle says. He leans in until Harry can smell his skin. Better that I show you.

He reaches out a hand and grasps an arm—

.

.

.

The child is gone.

A grey room with its gray walls and a taller, older Riddle.

I don’t think that child has that privilege yet, Riddle says. His voice has the depth the child lacked.

What do you mean, Harry wants to say, but Riddle does not elaborate. He studies Harry with a tilt of his head, and then seems to wait for something to happen. Harry does not step away. After a brief silence, he does what the child was about to do a moment before.

An arm. A grip. A mouth.

Riddle’s lips are chapped and dry. He barely feels it. Ghost-like, light, nonexistent. How convenient and easy would that have been, if only that were true. He fails to close his eyes and so he sees how delicate and long Riddle’s eyelashes are, how pale his skin is. He smells burnt wood and ash. You smell of dead bodies, Harry wants to jest. But no, it is not quite something so sinister.

Thin, spidery fingers curl along the side of his elbows. They hold him carefully. It’s all very gentle, with such delicate movements, as if he might break, as if he will tear himself and run away. Riddle tilts his head, and in the dim light, his cheekbones are hollowed and sharp. He has a mad urge to trace along those bones.

What is this, he does not open up his mouth to ask. What are you doing. He is afraid that the words he wishes to come out would not quite come, and he would instinctively ask quite another question altogether. Their lips meet and it is as if Harry knows how Riddle’s lips are shaped, how he tastes like from memories that he did not possess. This is all too familiar, he realizes. He wonders why he is not more panicked over this ease.  

This does not mean I have forgotten about my locket, Riddle breathes into his mouth. I still wish you a very painful death someday. A hand tightens its grip on his arm and dig at his bones until they hurt.  

He laughs in reply, his hysterics lost amidst their kiss.

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to apologize for such a delay--and I wasn't sure if anyone was waiting/ real life was busy/ I had too many plot bunnies running inside my head. HOPEFULLY I would finish this story before Real Life hits me again full blast. This means that I would have to finish about 100,000+ words within a month or two...but I've been known to do that before, so fingers crossed!  
> I also wanted to thank everyone who left such thoughtful reviews and I will definitely reply to them when I get the chance. It's because of the reviews that I'm actually writing this at all--otherwise it would have stopped inside my head. But thank you for all your lovely words. I promise I know where this story is going, even though it might confuse people. I'm just so grateful that people took the time to tell me all the timelines are not confusing, which was what I was most worried about XD  
> This is completely unbetaed...because I was in such a hurry to post it after such a hiatus. Sorry for any grammatical mistakes!  
> +) AND I have updated and reloaded the chapter to include some...things that will be explained in due time.

He laughs because it is the only thing he is able to do.

For what else was left of him? Other options run its course in his head and he dismisses them as inconceivable, maddening, sheer insanity—as if this act of chasteness with his sworn enemy was anything but a reaction of hard logic. He laughs with airy giddiness, his chuckles swallowed down by Riddle’s soft mouth, warm and comforting as no Dark Lord’s mouth ever should be, and he thinks truly, truly, this is all a mad dream of mine which I must wake.

The kiss is comforting. No, more than that—it is familiar. Riddle’s tongue is carefully probes inside his mouth, nothing like the kiss Malfoy had attacked him with, an act of a desperate boy. It is altogether unnerving how easily he melts into this grip. He acquiesces into it eagerly, perhaps even with relish. There is something inside of him—a soul, perhaps? —that craves this touch. It is all-consuming fire. As if he had been awaiting this moment as he had not done with Malfoy.

_Malfoy._

 As if Riddle had sensed his thoughts, Riddle’s hand tightens and forces his head to tilt further back, and he refuses to break apart even when Harry blinks, his sanity restored, no longer laughing but gasping for breath. Riddle does not take care to let him breathe; he seems to delight in the helpless state Harry shows, and a low voice rumbles against his mouth.

Do you think, he murmurs, your old man might have succeeded in prying out my plans?

Harry opens his eyes. Riddle’s eyes are so very close, so wide, so dark. It is an abyss.

The years aboard, Riddle whispers, and Harry does not know if Riddle is speaking to him through his mouth or inside his head, have served me well. Perhaps Dumbledore was not altogether hopeless in keeping track of my whereabouts.

What—Harry tries to say, and flounders. Where was he before he saw the too-thin Riddle? His mind grapples at a memory.

The book. His book.

Yes, you were pursuing it with some interest. Before you fell asleep.

You were searching for— he tries to start.

Not yet. Riddle whispers. Fingers twist and tangle in his hair, and Harry grimaces. You do not know much of it yet, so be patient. Not yet. Not now.

Harry continues to stare at him, this handsome youth who would grow up to murder his parents and come to murder him, and wonders. His heart is beating; his mind is running amok with the possibilities his feelings evoke. Riddle’s grip slowly loosens and their mouths part. A thin thread stretches out between them, breaks apart as Riddle takes a step backward, and another. Harry can only stand still and feel his bruised lips. Can only stutter inside these grey walls, the grey room.

This doesn’t feel strange, he says. Why?

Riddle smiles.

And Harry is struck by how cold the smile is, how it burns at the edges. There is nothing else to see but the smile, and etched on that face is the familiar hatred that Riddle shows for him. But there is something else. Around the smile, contained in that hatred, there is an elusive quality he does not quite dare name. Furious, hungry Tom Riddle whose eyes are not yet bloodied…he stares at the young Dark Lord.

I thought you knew, Riddle answers. That charming childhood I showed you. The same place you entered at will in your dreams. Myself, as a child.

Yes, he says slowly. I saw you as a child. In a dream.

He repeats the word, incredulous. Because it _was_ a dream, wasn’t it? Because you are a dream.

Riddle does not reply to his words. His dark eyes gleam.

Isn’t it? he asks now, hesitant.

Riddle’s lips curve higher and he shrugs. Dread settles somewhere, a black and foul thing.

 That—that was you. _Is_ you. It’s very real.

The child Riddle, who is so thin and hungry, so dreadfully unhappy, who greets Harry with spite, but who is also eager to talk, to brag his knowledge and show off…and Harry, who had shown him magic, offered him fire and hisses at him…Riddle who stares at him, an eager child, a starved child…

What a wonderful revelation, Riddle says. Please, do go on. You’re doing so well.

But he is too shocked to be baited by Riddle’s drawling contempt. He stumbles a little.

You’re showing me your past, he says in a rush of breath. You are—that snake and your room—Merlin, I’m going into your past, and you saw me when you were a child—and I, I’m watching you grow, and I will continue to see you back in time—

Riddle finally relents, a sharp little grin that softens, and he looks so very hungry and demanding all at once, his eyes delighted. Yes, you’re finally catching on.

But why? he says, and his question comes out in a desperate screech. There’s no point to it, is there? This is all in the past, you are dead—fuck! He snaps. I am so fucking tired of saying that, you are dead, I killed you, this is all inside my fucking head—this is not, NOT—

He feels mad. Empty. What does he feel? He feels overwhelmed. No—not quite. He feels as if there was something he had missed all those years ago. He hates Dumbledore. He hates Snape. He despises, _loathes_ Voldemort and this faux Dark Lord in front of him, at how easily that man had once died, only to haunt him like this, as if everything for the past ten years was a great sodding joke to them all.

You are going quite delusional, Riddle says calmly, unperturbed by his sudden burst of anger. Perhaps that is the sort of answer that would have your mind at peace?

I should be locked up, he snarls. Why am I going back in time, then? There’s no point in seeing you as a child, Riddle—I have enough on my plate as it is, I—do you know why I’m back in time right now? To kill you, when you’re weak and helpless without a body—

Yes, I know, Riddle says coldly. And you have succeeded in destroying the locket. 

And I will destroy the others, too. The diary, diadem, the cup, the snake you haven’t made—

You won’t, Riddle hisses, his eyes flashing. The hand comes up again, and fingers dig against his skin. Not when you have turned the wheel. You have turned it so when you asked Death to return to this time. You have not thwarted fate—nor shall you. Not when I remember you. Riddle laughs. Not when _he_ remembers you.

His heart thuds.

He, he repeats slowly. Yes…your future remembers me. _He_ remembers that I’m a…horcrux. He once bargained for the soul inside me.

A cold feeling rushes over him.

When he killed me in that forest, he thinks numbly, he killed his own soul, which he then resurrected. Nagini died. Perhaps Neville didn’t slay it after all. _It was supposed to die._ If I had then killed him…. his soul would have still been inside me, living.

His hand involuntarily comes up to his chest. He only feels the steady beating of his heart.

Yes, Riddle says pleasantly. Out of us all, he had seen everything, had he not? It is best if you might not…provoke him further, Harry. My older self does not have the patience I wield.

You? Harry snarls, suddenly angry. You—you’re just very good at playing the sociopathic murderer—and _he_ , he’s no better, he’s a fucking psychopath—

Is he? Riddle smirks coldly, his teeth showing. And what does that make you, in this world? A fool’s quest, but I think my older self had already pointed that out to you. So, tell me, Harry…can you fight me? Defeat me?

Riddle’s eyes. How they smothered him, strangled him, mangled him. He chokes. Riddle tilts his head and hisses.

**_Can you win?_ **

It is an alluring hiss. Tom speaks in the language only he knows, the language that Tom cursed him with, the language that Harry had mocked child-Riddle with, the tongue that binds them together in life and death. And he listens, and he thinks desperately, violently, this is a dream, only a nightmare,

Wake. Up.

**_No._ **

And Riddle holds him, eyes ablaze, his mouth curled into an ugly, mocking smile and repeats the question, but can you win, Harry, can we persevere in yet another war, a war that has not even started, and Tom’s voice echoes inside the grey room, his mindscape that was barren, and in his mouth he only tastes ash.

He looks at Tom blankly. The rage is gone out of him. How these grey walls remind him of something. The grey walls where blood cannot be splattered. Where magic does not work. Where he looks at the mad, raging eyes of Riddle and sees something there that frightens him, because years later and more wearied than ever, he can see how much he relates to that rage.

I don’t know, he answers. But I have to try.

Tom’s laughter fills his mind as he thinks again,

Wake up.

He awakes.

And thinks blearily, gasping for breath, I’m alive.

In Riddle’s eyes he sees the desperate need to feel. To _live._

Do I want to live then, after all these years? he asks his unresponsive mind.

.

.

.

The book is where he left it, and he jolts awake, and reads until the sun rises. As he flips over through the letters and reports Dumbledore had somehow managed to collect all these years, he reads them and tries to understand. Riddle had always wanted immorality above everything. Voldemort had succeeded in this, splitting his souls. And then—what had he looked for?

He walks out of the Slytherin common room in a daze wearing his Invisibility Cloak, and walks over to the Gryffindor Tower, and slips through the door easily, and reveals himself. Hermione is already up and waking for him, expectant and perhaps demanding. She looks angry, but her face morphs when she sees him.

She lets out a little gasp.

“Harry!” she exclaims, staring. “You look terrible.”

“I—do I?” he tries, and forces his lips to curve. Eleven-year-old Hermione Granger. Young and brash. Who is one of his closest friends. Who cannot die, who will watch him wilt away. Who will perhaps one day, save him again from his demons. If he gets back. If he wakes up.

“Come here, sit by the fire,” she says, casting a nervous look at the stairway. “They shouldn’t be up yet…oh, you brought your Cloak,” she says, relieved. “I was waiting for you all night, and then Malfoy comes up to give me a message—you should have seen the look on Ron’s face…”

“Conflicted, I’ll bet,” he says with a wan grin, and throws himself against the sofa. He lets out a little sigh. “I’m sorry, I went to Dumbledore first. I had to talk to him about something.”

Hermione watches him. When he refuses to speak more, she asks, impatient, “And did he help?”

He looks at the dying ember inside the fireplace. He remembers echoes of Dumbledore’s words. Things the old wizard had said to him. Things he had failed to say.

“No,” he says tiredly, “But he gave me this.”

And he gives Hermione the fragile book holding together all of Riddle’s nonexistent achievements, his years aboard, his ambitions. Hermione takes the book carefully, treating it like any other book. She stares at the embedded title for awhile but does not show any signs of surprise.

“I saw him last night,” Harry says, he does not know why he is telling this to an eleven-year-old, even if this is Hermione. To him she looks so young, so eager. There is light in her yet that he had not seen for a long time. “Voldemort.”

“Have you?” she says mildly. “Malfoy was hinting rather vaguely about something or another—Ron thought he finally went barking mad. His words, mind.”

Harry throws a sharp look at her. She returns his incredulity with a calmness he does not expect.

“So he back, then?” she asks quietly. “Quicker than you thought he would.”

He blinks. He tries to laughs and a weak chortle comes up.

“Yes, I guess so,” he tries, and makes that strange laughter again. “But he’s not quite back yet, he doesn’t have a body—he tried to drink unicorn’s blood, and that’s when Malfoy—Hermione, why aren’t you more panicked about this?”

He says the last question with a small screech, and at last Hermione cracks a small smile at his distress, even looking faintly amused.

“Maybe because I don’t really know him,” she muses. “Ron does, and certainly Malfoy too—but they come from wizarding families, so I suppose that they’ve been told from a very young age about how evil he was. And you—” she gives him a once-over, her eyes gazing at his hidden scar under his hair, and shrugs a little. “Well, your existence tells you everything.”  
He looks at her helplessly.

“You can’t be afraid of something you don’t know,” she says firmly, “Maybe that’ll be my advantage. Voldemort for me is—well, like a bogeyman. Think of it that way. He’s frightening, but he’s not real. At least, not until I’ve seen him.”

She looks back at the book again. “Do you want me to read this?”

He starts, and gives a little shake of his head. He smiles, a genuine one this time.

“It’s full of mythological references that I don’t get,” he admits, “Old Norse myths, gods and goddesses…figure I could use your input on this.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “The Norse gods?” she says doubtfully. “Who does Voldemort want to be—Loki or Odin?”

His smile grows wider. Trust Hermione to figure it out. “Odin, I think,” he says, “But in the twilight of everything—in Ragnarök—Loki. Maybe.”

Hermione frowns. “Because Loki is chaos,” she says slowly. “He breeds destruction and harvests his monsters. Because Ragnarök…could not have happened without him, nor his children.”

He laughs. It is a saner laugh this time, and the laughter is contagious. Hermione smiles at him, until they both laugh a little helplessly against each other.

“Where do you get your knowledge from?” he wonders aloud. Hermione rolls her eyes at him.

“Those are from children storybooks, I’ll have you know,” she says, but her eyes gleam, always happy whenever he gives her a compliment. Young and impetuous Hermione, who had once cried in the girl’s bathroom because Ron had mocked her for her bossy intellect. He suddenly wonders about her childhood, how off-handed she had seemed to him, when he had met her for the very first time. How insufferable she had been. Was there a time when she was unhappy with her facts stored inside her mind? he wonders. Was there a time when people insulted her and she hid behind more books and saw less of people?

“Now,” she says, her voice commanding, and he jolts out of his thoughts, “Tell me all about Sirius Black.”

This is how Ron finds them, in the empty but warm Gryffindor common room, laughing and talking softly like the old friends they once were and would soon be.

.

.

.

**_[Letter: Horace Slughorn to Tom Marvolo Riddle, 1946-48]_ **

 

My dear boy, what a pleasure to hear from you. I hope that you are well and that this letter finds you accordingly, although it seems that my last few letters much have gotten lost with some stray owls. I shall be obtaining an owl for my own, soon; I can hardly trust these school carriers to do their jobs properly.

But I’m an old man, merely prattling about in trivial pleasantries, and you are no doubtless impatient for my news. I was delighted when I heard that you had quit that atrocious shop down at Knockturn Alley. _If_ the rumors were true. I’ve been hearing things, my boy, and so you will forgive your old professor when he had taken pains to keep tabs on his favorite pupil.

I am quite in good health, although the teaching has been taking a toll on me of late. I am considering retiring, but alas, the Headmaster is insistent and can be very persuasive when he wishes to be. You would have made a fine Potions Master, no doubt, of course, and should you ever wish to be one, I would only be too happy to put in a word for you once you decide that the wandering life is not for you. And surely, it is _not_ , Tom; you are made for greater things.

I send you the book that you have requested of me in your last (or was it the one before?) letter. I did not know what use you would have for such children’s books, but perhaps you are feeling nostalgic, wherever you may be? In any case, this is the first version of the Norse mythology poems—that is, it is not marred with the later revisions of Ragnarök, the resurrection scene that was influenced by Christianity. I must admit, I am not the most well-versed in these poems myself, but yes, you are quite correct: the original end of Ragnarök is earth consumed by water, the sky consumed by flames. There is nothing left after the twilight of the gods.

But such morbid thoughts should not conclude this letter! I do hope that this is all for some sentimental purpose, Tom, and not—for some wild goose chase you may be on. You often engaged in such trivia while you were at school, I remember now. I wish you well, Tom, and hope that you may come visit soon.

 

**_[Memoranda: Tom Marvolo Riddle to Antonin Dolohov, date unknown]_ **

 

I have seen the wintry landscape, where nothing seems to grow. I am here, the ends of the earth, where only the most vulgar come to die wasted on these wastelands.

But there seems to be no use for my words. I have not found what I sought, not did I think I would have. There is nothing left of the old world. It is full of steel and monstrous constructions. I did not expect anything, of course, not after all this time—but still, I can perhaps express some disappointment in this.

Move to Oslo. Move onwards north. If there is nothing there—then there is nothing in this earth. The gods have taken it with them, if there were such men so long ago.

 

**_[Letter: Galatea Merrythought to Tom Marvolo Riddle, 1946-48]_ **

 

Mr Riddle, you had once tried to flatter and cajole me with your questions and you had almost succeeded. A letter, unfortunately, does not carry your charms that you had possessed in my classroom and you wore without any particular shame. You are contacting me because you are desperate, I believe, for let us be frank of your objectives towards me and my suspicions of you.

I am an old woman, Mr Riddle. I do not care to study the minds of ambitious students who believe themselves to be gods in this mortal and modern world. Our world had gone through a terrible war and it does not seem fit to erupt another calamity.

Make your fortunes in England, take your wild dreams to the ever-crumbling Germany, perhaps even stop the chaotic bloodbaths that are erupting in the Far East at this moment. Appoint yourself the Minister of Magic, for all that it would please you (and no doubt, your former Head would be very delighted to hear your successes). I daresay your tact would be more welcome than the imbecile we have at the present.

Why do you persist in attaining a branch of magic that is obscure beyond Morgana and Merlin, when you could stay satisfied with the chaos around you? I do not delude myself, but neither I am a fool. You could become a great man, and the stage is ripe for you. There is no need to chase nonexistent power that had once been passed down as legend. And you would perhaps answer me, with a pretense of sincerity about how you would wish to be a legend.

But do you truly, Mr Riddle? Or do you merely wish to erupt chaos in this world that had just rid itself of Grindelwald?

I attach the unknown words of the ancients at your bequest, for I believe that this piece of information can do no harm to the world at large. It is only to satisfy your own interests, and these words all null and void. Do what you must with them. But remember that such words come at a high price. I offer them to you because I do not believe you are quite ready, nor will ever be, willing to pay such a high risk. You are ambitious, but, if my memories serve correctly, you are also a very careful wizard.

Choose wisely, for many eyes are upon you.

 

**_[Report: [unknown] to Tom Marvolo Riddle, date unknown]_ **

 

Odin is the god who gains knowledge and power—he is Death itself and he had offered Life for the total of his ever wisdom—but even the gallows-god could not have anticipated nor prevented the end—the twilight of the gods was a vague ending that would have happened but when, no one quite knew, not even Odin…

Odin is the all-father, who rules over the worlds of giants and monsters and humans alike, but it is ultimately Loki’s wrath that crushes the world, his eternal desire for chaos. It is his children that defeat the mightiest of the gods: the wolf would crush Odin, the serpent would take down Thor, and Hel would raise the armies from the underworld and march them up the earth. Odin is mortal in the end—and he does not resurrect, not even in the future world which emerges after the floods and flames of the earth.

Odin’s power lies in knowledge and his inevitable end—his acceptance of Death, for he had once offered his life for the absolute knowledge, and he has conquered Death thus. But Loki’s power lies in Death itself, for he is nothing without his destruction and his rage, and wherever he goes, there is chaos and bitterness, and when the gods finally depose of him in binds, imprisoning him with a viper, he swears vengeance upon the laughing gods. He is a demigod who awaits the end. Not quite a god—not quite a man.

.

.

.

What is there in the afterlife?

Death will drag you under with his willowy fingers before he answers, but, if you are lucky, if you are one of the _Chosen_...

Perhaps he will tell you. 

Nothing of consequence, Death will say pleasantly. Only your mindscape, nothingness and a grey abyss. Fog and memories. Your dreams of what once existed. What could have been. What is to be. 

In other words: yourself. 

.

.

.

The older boy—man?—came into his dreams, intermittently.

He was untidy, dreadfully so. That was the first thing Tom noticed about him. There was the hair and the scruffy shoes. Tom sneered at the state of his clothes, dirtied and wrinkled, not to mention the too-thin frame of the shadow. He was malnourished. Tom could see such things without anyone telling him so. He could see many things that the matrons thought he did not.

_Fools. Fools. Fools._

He did not rein in his temper in those days. He screamed as loud as Billy in the corner where all naughty orphans were punished and he threw books out the window until he was forced to sit down and read. Once he figured it out, the words came naturally to him. With recognition came hunger. He read the words, absorbed them, devoured.

Was that the word? _Devoured._

He ate his books up and mangled them, for he was hungry for knowledge and eager to wring everything out. The tattered books soon lost interest and he took to sneaking out of his prison walls, his nimble feet carrying him across the gardens and the streets. He snuck into the public library where the matrons later found him. He was issued a library card. Tom’s special, matrons said to the other kids. Tom sneered behind their backs.

The matrons were quite frightened of him but did not know how to express their fear. They punished him when they saw him act, which was not quite often, but they did not like the look in his eyes. He saw it from the way they flinched, the way they stared at him when they thought he was not looking. He was clever, far, far cleverer than the other kids. And he was bored. Dreadfully so.

And it was also a boring day when he met his snake and learned that he could talk to them. There it was at first—excitement. But snakes were dull creatures; what they wanted was a fresh kill, and they would then like Tom to feed them rabbits and rodents, and while at first it all excited Tom, he was soon thinking how tedious everything became. His snake kept him company on the days when the orphanage was intolerable. Snakes did not understand orphans. They did not understand abandonment. Tom tried to explain it to them and failed, for there was no word for loss. But there were other words. Alone. Solitude.

Yes, Tom decided. He preferred solitude. The aloneness of everything.

This was when Tom met _him_ , just as Tom was soaked in rabbit blood. That untidy hair and unclean clothes.

Who also spoke the language of the snakes and showed him a fire.

Tom watched him, alit with interest. He looked back at Tom. He knew Tom’s name and called him mockingly. And Tom, insulted, snarled and looked up to see—

Green eyes. Looking at him in hatred and something else. In it he saw an abyss and he did not understand that, young child that he was. He stared and studied those unnatural eyes, that color which he did not know yet, which would later grant him death upon his enemies with a single spell. At last the other boy looked away. He hissed. He conjured a fire out of nowhere.

And what had Tom said?

Beautiful, he said. Tom was looking at the fire and at the green eyes. They danced in the firelight. It was like magic, if such a thing existed. The other boy finally quirked a smile but those eyes remained limp. Thin fingers snapped and the fire grew ever-brighter. Tom felt as if he was being indulged, but he did not bother to be irked about it. He could be a friend, Tom thought.

Or an enemy, a more familiar voice inside his head warned him.

What was that expression? he had asked himself over the years, before he knew that the boy was Harry Potter and his future executioner, his damnation and salvation both. He pondered over the peculiar look until one day he saw himself in the mirror, years later, his features blurred and ugly, and saw red eyes looking back at him. He took a step back, blinking slowly. He took a hand to his face and traced his gaunt cheeks. He stared.

He saw Potter’s eyes staring back at him. Murderous rage. The eyes of death.

.

.

.

Sometimes in his dreams, old Dumbledore comes to him and announces that he is a wizard. He crows. He is jubilant as he never was in his youth and has never quite been since. And Dumbledore watches him, wary and ever-alert. What did that fool see then, he wonders, amused, his own self or perhaps Grindelwald? A young boy hoping he was special, who was extraordinary…surely Dumbledore could have related to that once. But when Dumbledore meets young Tom Riddle, Dumbledore is past his prime, and is a boring old fool who wants to talk about morals and mannerisms. He sneers inwardly and Dumbledore reads his mind. Recoils. At what? It is everything that you had once seen before, he thinks savagely.

But other times, his dreams are more interesting. A boy comes into his dreams, green eyes and untidy hair. He conjures fire around them all. The boy’s thin lips are curved in a familiar smirk that one day he will imitate. The boy mocks. He bristles. The boy laughs, then checks himself. For some reason, the boy looks ashamed for a brief moment. Green eyes waver onto his eyes. The boy looks into those strange orbs. As a child he had wondered why it was so.

Not yet, the boy whispers, half to himself. Your eyes aren’t…no, not yet.

Not yet, what? he demands, but there is no answer. There never is any answer.

But the boy talks about other things. About what he was, _who_ he was.

So when Dumbledore comes to him later and talks pleasantly about magic and Hogwarts, it is everything he had heard before and he takes it all in with a very bored air. It takes Dumbledore by surprise; the old man sits up straighter, his blue eyes widening.

Why, Tom, Dumbledore says benignly and he seethes inside, Did you know of Hogwarts?

I heard tales of it, he says coolly.

It is not something you hear as bedtime stories, Dumbledore says, gentle and probing.

He does not answer. In his dreams, there is nothing that the old man can make him do.

In his dreams. In his dreams. In his dreams.

Because he knows those are dreams. In death he floats around, his conscious gone, his thoughts astray. Loose ends of thoughts meander around his brain, hissing nonsensical words at him. Dreams of the past are what he has left now.

He is waiting. For ten years he has been waiting.

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

When Harry opens his eyes, the sky is shaking. 

He smells gunpowder and rubble. A rotting odor. Cautious, he takes a step forth and looks about, seeing nothing moving around him. The ground is wet and muddy, and dirt is spilt on the pavements where the sidewalks have been destroyed. He looks up and only sees darkness. He squints, and as his eyes get used to his bearings, he makes out shadowy contours of buildings and lampposts. None are quite perfectly intact. He realizes that it is not the sky that is shaking; the ground rumbles from below. He stumbles a little, and regains his footing.

He walks on. As he does, there is something familiar about the pavements. The arches and brick houses lined along the streets. He imagines them as a reddish brown on a sunny day. He looks down and thinks, this is London.

I’m in a warzone, he next thinks, bewildered. The smell and sound, the eerie silence of it all, everything is something that I once dreamt of.

There is something moving a few feet in front of him. Amidst the darkness and the blasting noise he makes out a figure of a small child. It seems as though the child is lost, but is doing nothing about it. Not running or shrieking in wild fear.

Child? A young boy. The boy had been crouching on the ground and has now stood up.

In his hand is a wand.

He quickens his steps.

Riddle, he thinks, anger bubbling inside him. Stupid, fucking Riddle. Of course. What lunatic would voluntarily stand in the middle of the Blitz?

For it was the air raids of the turbulent years between 1940 and 41—the smoky raids, the blaring siren, the complete and utter stillness of the city save for the bombs falling. Hitler had declared his lighting war on Britain, thinking that he can conquer his last standing enemy from the sky. And young Tom Riddle, standing in the middle of it all, waiting for something to happen. His ears ring from the crashes. His nose stings. He scowls.

Riddle does not acknowledge him. He does not seem to be noticing that he is in the middle of a bombing attack, so immersed he is on staring at his wand. As he walks closer towards the younger boy, he hears a small chant. A spell.

A curse? He thinks for a moment, wildly. He takes in the small frame of Tom Riddle again. Not yet grown. Still a child.  _Young_. How old is he? What is the boy doing? Trying to enlarge destruction? To seek death? He grows frantic. He shoves his hand in his pockets for his wand and tries to think vainly of a defense spell that may knock Riddle cold.

But the bomb is quicker.

They both hear the bomb before they see it; jerking their heads up, both Riddle and he look up, and see the roaring thunder that rains from the sky. Shooting past the smoky fog and clouds, something is about to fall.

He opens his mouth to scream. Riddle only points his wand with precision, his hand movements sharp.

Protego, he hears the boy speak.

Idiot, he immediately thinks, a burning anger rushing through him—and relief. Then he is seized with terror—great, unspeakable terror—because the shield charm does not work, and the bomb is moving rapidly towards the ground and at them.

Later, he would try to explain that war gives way to instinct, and no one is quite logical and rational in the face of death. Later, he would say, well, I saw a child who was an idiot but he wasn’t a murderer. Later, he would say, and cajole to a cold voice inside him, a highly amused and delighted voice: What could I have done?

The voice would reply back: why, Harry, you saved my life, what is there to explain?

He does not think before he whips out his own wand and bellows, PROTEGO!

A white barrier erupts from his wand and enwraps them both. The sudden light takes Riddle by surprise, and he looks about wildly before seeing who had cast the shield.

You, Riddle says dumbly, then with malice.  _You._

He does not have time to answer. The bomb immediately impacts with his shield, and the barrier shakes violently. He grinds his teeth and raises his wand higher. The pressure hurts. The spell was not meant for a Muggle bomb intending to kill and destroy. Stupid, idiotic fool, he thinks again, irk allowing him to take a step back and thrusting his wand forth again, snapping, Protego!

The shield increases. The bomb finally relents, shattering around them, creating small explosions where the barrier did not reach. Inside the small barrier he had made, they are quite safe. Alit and visible, they now stare at each other with hostile eyes.

Harry says, venom dripping over his words, although he does not quite know why,  _That._  Was Incredibly foolish.

Riddle does not answer, his scowl answering for his silence.

What were you trying to do, kill yourself? Harry says sarcastically. His heart has not yet steadied. His blood is rushing. He had just averted death, yet again, because of this child. He is alive. He  _feels_  alive. Heart racing, blood soaring.

He had saved this child.

The thought stops him cold. He stares at Riddle, holding his wand limply in his hands. Riddle does not meet his eyes and he does not know what the younger boy is thinking.

No, don’t be stupid, Riddle finally says, a high and cold voice. I was trying to test something.

He is wearing his Slytherin robes. Doesn’t he ever take them off? Harry thinks, exasperated. Riddle’s hair, for the first time, looks as untidy as his own, dirt streaked and mussed. He is surprised at how alike they now seem to look, both with their dreadful hair and annoyance shining in their dark eyes.

_There are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter…we even look something alike._

Riddle’s voice in the Chamber of Secrets from years ago slips into his memory, and he takes a step forward, involuntarily. With his step, Riddle falters. He looks wild, his eyes wide and breath unsteady.

What were you trying to test? he asks.

Riddle sneers. None of your—

I just saved your life from a fucking stupid feat you just tried to pull off, of course it’s my fucking business, Harry snaps back, just as coldly, and Riddle looks surprised. His head jerks up and their eyes meet. Yes, Riddle should be startled. He had always held his temper with the younger boy, hiding his true emotions behind a veil of mockery.

Riddle quickly recovers, however, and his face is wiped clean, blank. Ah, so he had now mastered how to wear his face like a mask.

I was trying to see...if I could strengthen my Shield Charm, Riddle says calmly. If the Shield Charm could work against bombings. Clearly it can, although my own spell needs more work. I’m not suicidal, Riddle adds, slipping out his irk once more, when he continues to stare. I don’t have a death wish; it was all for an experiment. I was—curious.

The last person to be suicidal would be you, Harry agrees silently in his mind, and hysteria seizes him. He chokes back an inappropriate bark of laughter.

You were curious? he repeats. Curious? How old are you right now, twelve? Of course your spell wouldn’t be strong enough to counter back a murderous weapon!

I just finished my third year, Riddle counters back flatly, stiffly, as if wishing to counter on such an unimportant point. Harry stares at him, incredulous.

Yes...and you’re just proving my point. Not even adult wizards can successfully cast a Shield Charm, you know, much less one strong enough to save you from an incoming death wish.

I’m not like most people, Riddle hisses, and quickly attacks, And you just did.

I what?

Casted a Shield Charm strong enough to avert death. Riddle curls his lips. Or do you also not consider yourself one of those incompetent adult wizards?

He stares. Riddle smirks and tilts his head.

Well? Riddle drawls out, calm and already collected.

I—he tries to say, and stops. I don’t consider myself very powerful, if that’s what you mean.

Just powerful enough to defeat the Dark Lord, it seems, another voice silently adds from inside him.

Liar, Riddle says, but the anger is gone from him. He does a little shrug. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t die—and you saved me. Why did you save me?

It is a question poised from an orphan child, an unhappy half-blood who is now in Slytherin. Even in his Hogwarts robes Riddle does not look very ecstatic, merely very thin and aloof. He is very handsome, yes, but there is a touch of cold beauty that leaves the bystander wary. He still plays the role of an outsider. And this child asks him an innocent, perhaps obvious question in wonderment. No one had quite saved him before. No one had cared enough.

But the question strikes something feral inside him, and Harry bites his lips. Something claws at him. Yes, he thinks gloomily, staring into Riddle’s eyes, Why  _did_  I save you?

Do you tend to do that often? he asks instead. Gambling on your life because you’re curious?

I knew I wasn’t going to die, Riddle says off-handedly. I was testing out my luck, Clearly, fate seems to favor me.

Clearly, you’re a delusional lunatic, he finally says, throwing caution to the wind and letting his laughter burst out.  _Clearly_ , you’re a reckless idiot. Did no one ever tell you that?

Riddle does not share his amusement, which makes him laugh all the harder. Riddle does not like to be mocked, it seems. No, of course not. The future Dark Lord prides himself to be feared, respected, admired—not made of a laughingstock.

Stop  ** _laughing_** , Riddle snaps, his irk transforming into a deadly hiss.

You could have died, he points out, and his laughter subsides. Not that I would’ve cared, but—

Liar, Riddle repeats again, his mouth twisting. You saved me, of course you care. What do those old wizards call it? A life for a life. Is that what you want?

The old wizards? Wait—no, he says, his eyes blinking. I’ve heard that one before. No.  _No._  I don’t want that.

Why? Riddle says, his false pleasant voice seeping into his words, his plastered smile quite sickening to look at. His anger has now all completely vanished, in place a wicked smile. A life for a life. It’s an old pureblood vow. A life debt. I would hardly call myself a proper wizard if I didn’t make that promise.

I swear, I don’t want—he starts, frantic, but Riddle is faster.

A life for a life, Riddle repeats, I owe you a life debt…he pauses. I don’t even know your name.

No need, Harry says.

Riddle’s eyes bore into his own. You know mine.

No need, he says, firmer. I don’t care for some stupid life debt. Also, you’re not a pureblood.

Riddle’s eyes flare at that. No, he says testily, But I’m also sorted in a House that values such rituals. I’m still a Slytherin.

And you’re not in school, Harry cuts in, looking about. The bombs have stopped for the time being. He is uneasy in the sudden silence. Stones roll beneath their feet. You should be…in the orphanage.

I ran away from that place, Riddle says scathingly, the matrons relocated to the countryside because they thought it was safer. As if. At least in the city there are bomb shelters.

So you're in London running amok, testing your wild theories? Harry asks, Aren’t you afraid?

Riddle looks at him blankly. At what?

Of death.

Oh, Riddle dismisses with a little shrug. I’ve had other close encounters. How else will I learn?

Rotten little brat, Harry thinks tiredly, and here I am, saving this foul—

He stops his thoughts as he looks down.

He notices at last, how Riddle’s hands are shaking slightly.

You  _are_  scared, he notes, with some surprise. His head snaps to meet Riddle’s eyes again. They are avoiding his. Again. You idiot—you could’ve said—

Don’t, Riddle snarls, and his eyes are frenzied, mad, raging—and his wand is pointed at Harry. Don't call me an idiot!

He sucks in a breath.

Everything is still.

A familiar scene. Riddle’s wand aimed at him, he, looking at Riddle’s cold, murderous eyes and thinking the futility of changing such a monster. You were born a murderer, he thinks numbly. But you are also—you are also a child. You are so brazen and curious. Why is this? Is that why? I had just saved the murderer of my parents, I have saved the wizard who would grow up to be the darkest wizard in history, I have…

Coldness washes over him. He does not bother raising up his own wand.

He waits. 

But Riddle does not curse him. He does not kill him. How can he? He has not yet murdered as of yet, does not know his lineage, his true ancestors…he is not the boy that Harry had seen in the Chamber of Secrets, the perfect school prefect who would be wily and pleasant. No, Riddle is not yet that. He is still raw and hurtful, so very open. Riddle only looks at him contemptuously, his eyes shaking. Harry looks down at this child and feels nothing but exhaustion. Riddle is covered in soot. Somewhere along the way he has lost his shoes and his feet are covered in grime and blood.

With a sigh, he finally raises his wand. Riddle’s hand shakes harder.

He mutters a spell, and Riddle instantly shuts his eyes and opens them back again cautiously when nothing happens.

Did you think I would harm you? Harry asks wearily when Riddle looks about, bewildered. I just saved you, you know.

What did you do? Riddle snaps.

He shrugs. You needed a washing.

Riddle looks down at himself, then jerks his head up again. On his face is horror and astonishment, other emotions that he had never seen on the Dark Lord’s face. Blank shock. Yes, he had once seen that look. When he had seen Voldemort die for the final time. As if he could not believe what has happened. Voldemort could not believe his own demise then—could he now not believe in the mercy of others? Kindness?

Come on, he says, when Riddle would not speak again. We should get back—the bombs might fall again. And this Shield won’t hold forever, you know.

Without thinking, he stretches out a hand. Riddle stares at it, a foreign thing. His eyes are blazing. Harry does not waver and waits.

And minutes pass. He does not bother holding his breath. Riddle’s hand twitches, and he finally lowers his wand and raises his empty hand. He reaches out.

The boy’s hand is warm. It is a human’s hand, after all, Harry thinks. But he is surprised at the lack of spite following his words.

.

.

.

“What do you think Voldemort would’ve wanted—immortality or power?”

Snape startles violently at his sudden intrusion.

“Potter,” he snaps, when he realizes who it is. Harry takes off his cloak and closes the dungeon door behind him. “I should have known one detention wouldn’t have—is that an Invisibility cloak?” Snape balks, and for a brief second his face contorts in cold fury before masking itself in disdain once more. “Are you asking me to confiscate your worldly possessions by coming to my office wearing that?”

“No, I’m trying to ask you a question about Voldemort—oh, fine, the Dark Lord,” he says, when he sees Snape pressing his lips together, face very white. “Fine. Fine! You gave me a detention with Malfoy and I just saw  _him_  dosing unicorn blood. Partly, I blame you for this. I killed one of his souls and it’s not as if you can award me house points because you have an unspeakable hatred for my dad, but at the very least you could have saved me from almost being killed. Or getting Malfoy killed. He’s your godson, isn’t he?”

Snape does not even summon up surprise as to how he would know such things. He only raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he says coolly, “I have heard the report from the Headmaster.”

“Yes,” Harry mimics Snape’s tone, “And he seems to suspect something.”

“About?”

Harry shrugs, looking around and avoiding Snape’s beady eyes. “About how I might not be an ordinary first year.”

“I would very much mourn for the headmaster’s magical abilities if he had not done so yet,” Snape sneers, “And trust me, Potter, you reek of magic. Foul magic, I should add. It’s a wonder the rest of my colleagues have not caught on yet.”

“Lucky for me, isn’t it,” he mutters. “You weren’t exactly helping me when you assigned me detention in the forest, either.”

“I’m sure you managed to outlive the Dark Lord once more,” Snape dismisses, although his narrowed eyes study him closely. Harry fidgets under his steely gaze. “You say he’s back?”

“Half a body,” he says. “Not quite resurrected—not quite human.”

Snape does not speak for awhile. When he finally does, it is to raise his wand and point it at Harry to incant a spell. He does his best not to brandish his own wand on instinct, and twitches a little as Snape’s hand swishes.

“You reek of filth, boy,” Snape says archly, putting his wand away again. “Did you sleep with those same clothes you trudged along in the forest?”

“I—didn’t sleep,” he admits, then rubs his eyes. He is not quite ready to trust Snape with his dreamscape memories. That are not, obviously only dreams. “I—er, was somewhere else.”

“Ah, yes.” Snape’s voice is once again cold. “Hence, the cloak.”

“Hence the cloak,” he echoes, blinking rapidly. “And hence, why I came here.”

“To ask me about the Dark Lord’s ideologies? Surely, Potter, you could have chosen a better time to confront me about it.”

“You helped destroy one of his souls,” he points out, not missing the way Snape’s jaw twitched, “And I just helped serve that rotten detention—and sir, really, there’s no one else to ask.”

Snape stares at him, unblinking and unimpressed. Harry shifts his feet and presses his lips tightly together. Snape does not say anything.

“Look—it’s not,  _easy_ , for me, you know,” he finally says, when Snape chooses to remain silent, “I know that you don’t like me, and frankly, I don’t trust you that much either, but you still—taught me those spells, you know what I am—and, and…” he swallows. “I’m not asking you to fight my wars,” he says quietly, “I’m not asking you to clean up after my messes. But there’s a war coming, whether you want it or not, and this time, I would like you to...”

“Live?” Snape interrupts, his eyes looking strange. He says the word as if it is a foreign thing to say. Perhaps it is.

“Live,” he agrees; repeats the word as if the word is somehow an incantation that held power inside it.

Snape stares at him with the same fatigued eyes he had shown Harry in the hospital wing. He does not know what Snape is thinking; he doubts whether he would ever find out. For Snape is an elusive, muddling man who is vague in his intentions and murkier still in his morals. Nothing could atone Snape, he could see now; not the love of his mother, not the guilt he had worn throughout all these long years after the first fall of Voldemort.

“…The Dark Lord,” Snape speaks, in a halting, awkward voice, “had always wanted immortality and power. Are they completely indistinguishable from one another? To him conquering death was the ultimate power he could have wielded. He would have done anything to achieve this.” He pauses. “And apparently, he has succeeded,” he continues, sounding even more exhausted.

In the dim dungeon light, it strikes Harry at how old Snape looks, how his sallow face and lanky hair holds years of turmoil and anxiety and grief, how slowly he rubs his eyes when he speaks. Without his anger and malice, Snape looks like a corpse, in his pallid skin and bottomless eyes. He is a man who has never been quite happy. A miserable man awaiting something.

“He has more of his souls scattered about, then,” Snape says, and Harry nods silently. Snape looks at him, for once, his face not twisting in dislike, but completely empty and blank. Snape nods along with him.

“Yes,” he says. “I would imagine so. The Dark Lord does not do things by halves.”

“…He also chased after mythology,” he says, studying Snape’s face, looking for a sign of recognition, “He was obsessed with legends. Do you think…” he hesitates, because the idea and the very words sounds mad, ludicrous, but this was Voldemort that they were talking about, who chased after every maddening, non-existent, impossible thing, because Voldemort, apparently, was a boy who once thought a German bomb would not kill him, “he wanted to be a god?”

Snape gives out a hollow laugh. “I would not be surprised if he pursued such a quest,” he says, but would not say anything more.

.

.

.

Malfoy looks tired when Harry comes to join him for lunch later in the day. By the way Malfoy is making a face at him, he does not think he looks any better.

“I am never going along with your foolhardy quests again,” he mutters, but shoves Harry a bread basket all the same, “Eat up, Potter, I can’t bear to see your sickly face.”

“You both look horrible,” Ron puts forth unhelpfully, now getting quite successful in ignoring the hissing Slytherins who sometimes dark glares at him and Hermione. He looks quite comfortable in the Slytherin table, Harry thinks, a little amused, and sneaks a look at the teacher’s table, where Snape is giving them all a very unpleasant look.

“You look very refreshed, Weasley, but that wouldn’t say anything about you now, would it?” Malfoy sneers. He pokes at his own breakfast food with force, but his eyes betray his lack of hostility.

Harry had stayed up the night in Gryffindor Tower, relating to Ron and Hermione about everything that had happened with Sirius, and referred vaguely to the locket as one of Voldemort’s possessions, which elicited many gasping and worrying from both of them. He said that perhaps it was not so wise to go looking for the Stone again so soon, as he had just seen Voldemort that very night in the Forest. Ron wondered aloud if Harry had a magical aura that attracted him to unnecessary and mortal danger. He laughed a little hysterically while Hermione smacked Ron with a cushion quite viciously.

He had fallen asleep and dreamt of Tom, his morbid curiosity and he had—he had saved the boy. Because he did not want the boy to die? Because he was young?

Jolted awake, he had gone to Snape and they had a civil discussion, the first time they spoke plainly without any mockery and snide remarks exchanged between them. No remarks were passed about his parents or his own temperament, only about Voldemort and his supposed motives…and although he is none the wiser in understanding Voldemort’s intentions, immortality or raw power, he feels better, at least, knowing that Voldemort was out there somewhere, knowing everything that he did, and perhaps more.

And perhaps more. He chews on his bread slowly. Voldemort knows what he is and who he is in this timeline. And he, apparently, had known Voldemort as a young child, when he was only Tom Riddle and nothing more. Does Voldemort have the same recollections that I do? he wondered. He swallows. Does Voldemort know that I once saved him, and he forced a life debt onto me out of sheer spite?

“Why is Voldemort the greatest Dark Lord, anyhow?” Hermione’s question jolts him out of his thoughts and he immediately chokes on his remaining bread.

Hermione had whispered the name, but some people nearby whip their heads around and stare at Hermione, dumbstruck, as if they had never heard the name before, or had never met anyone quite so foolish who would utter the name with such little thought. Hermione flushes under their gazes and flushes even more when Harry turns to look at them coldly.

“We’re sitting in the Slytherin table, Hermione,” Ron mumbles, glancing at Harry and the other hostile eyes nervously, “Have a little tact, yeah?”

“I feel very foolish, just saying that name, You-Know-Who,” Hermione hisses back, but much quieter than before, “It’s not as if a name would do anything, will it?”

“Some people thought that he put a curse on his name, so that he could know who were his followers and who weren’t,” Ron says, shrugging, throwing Malfoy a dark look while he was at it, “I guess that habit didn’t really die out, even when he was gone.”

“It’s just plain idiocy. What are you trying to prove by saying a dead man’s name?” Malfoy drawls, eyeing Ron with equal hostility.

“Except he’s not quite dead now,” Harry reminds him. Malfoy snorts.

“And yes, there you have it, Granger, he didn’t die even after he was supposed to—that would count as a supreme achievement, he conquered death, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but, what ideas make him so great?” Hermione persists. Her eyes were gleaming strangely. She had that look about her when she wanted to argue and drive her point. She also looked vaguely amused, as if she was trying to understand something that eluded her.

“I was reading up a fascinating biography on all the Dark Lords over the past few centuries—”

“Never a good idea,” Ron says.

“And you have Herpo the Foul, for one, who was the first man to have spilt his soul,  _and_  who was a Parselmouth—”

Dangerous territory, Harry thinks, while Ron and Malfoy both exclaim at the same time, “Urgh,” and look horrified that they actually agreed on something.

“—or you have Morgan le Fay, also a great Dark Witch at the time of Merlin—”

“Ugh,” Malfoy says, rolling his eyes.

“—and let’s not forget Gellert Grindelwald—”

Ron throws up his hands and mouths a wordless exasperation.

“ _What_?” Hermione looks determined and mulish. “No, I get that the others might be—quite medieval and old, but Gellert Grindelwald? He’s been quite an interesting read, a revolutionary in many parts—”

“He wanted to subjugate Muggles in their rightful place, Granger, did you read up on that little tidbit?” Malfoy says under his breath. Before Harry could step on his foot and remind Malfoy yet again at how brilliant Hermione would be in her hexes in the foreseeable future, Hermione reacts with a snort. 

“Yes, I did—and I didn’t say I agreed with his ideals, but you can’t deny that he was a genius. He was an idealist,” she says, her fingers tapping on the table, lost in a thought of her own, “and those men are the most dangerous—you know how wrong they can turn out to be…and he was feared all across Europe when he was at the full height of his power…whereas Vol—”

“He-who-must-not-be-named,” Ron interrupts in a rush.

“The Dark Lord,” Malfoy says just as quickly.

Hermione gives them both a very unimpressive look. “Yes, yes,  _Him_ —he was just very feared across Britain, wasn’t he? He was just rumored to be terrible in the Continent, but he didn’t have a power base there, at least not like Grindelwald…” Hermione frowns. “Just what were his ideas? His original ideas, I mean,” she says, irritated, when she sees Malfoy opening his mouth to say something nasty, “Not the entire Muggle subjugation, extermination, etc.,etc. For himself. What was going to be his legacy?”

“Wizard supremacy seems to mark the main goals of any Dark Lord,” Harry murmurs with a quirk of his lips.

“In that case, Grindelwald was more successful in carrying that plan out, wasn’t he?” Hermione challenges, folding her arms, “He waged war with almost the entire Wizarding World, and he collaborated with the Muggles too…did you know he was working with Hitler?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it, no,” Harry says, while Ron and Malfoy exchange confused looks.

“Hitler? Who’s he, a Muggle?” Ron asks, and this time, Harry and Hermione are the once to exchange wry glances.

“ _Who’s he, a Muggle?_  he says,” Hermione says, sighing and rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Ron, I think I should lend you this book after I’m done with it, it could be useful to learn something—”

“No need,” Ron immediately says, looking horrified at the very thought, “We’re already working like Ravenclaws these days down at the library, Fred and George are harping onto me these days, no need to make it worse…”

“My point is,” Hermione stresses, still not able to rid herself of her frustration, “Is  _why_ —”

Because Grindelwald wanted to change the world, Riddle answers in his mind; Harry jumps a little in his seat, and coughs when Hermione looks at him, surprised at his sudden movement. Harry shakes his head and attempts a smile, his heart beating a little wildly. Because Grindelwald had ideals and ideas, ruthless plans he wished to execute. Such things mankind has always understood, be it Muggle or wizard. Grindelwald was predictable, didn't you know? The tales I have heard of him while I was at school…a gifted boy, a bright and talented wizard with many promises that all fell for naught when he almost killed a student…and he was too foolish and eager, showing off his power, wanting the world to see his brilliance. He was a young revolutionary who thought himself original. He was anything but. How do such stories end? The revolutionary becomes corrupted with power…he is enchanted by it, thinking everything is for the greater good…that was his justification, was it not? It was how he had convinced Albus Dumbledore. It was how he lured his followers. A revolutionary with good intent, but a horrible fall, a man drunk in his achievements as the years passed. And I had once pretended as well, followed his footsteps and philosophies, but never his delusions, no…

Riddle laughs softly.

Grindelwald wanted to change the world, but I, I had no interest in such things. I did not care about the world, Harry, I only cared about my own inevitable end, or lack thereof. People fear what they do not understand, and they did not understand my wars, nor my plans for the future that did not contain anything. I valued magical blood, but I did not revere it unconditionally as Grindelwald had. I sought war, but I did not fight it needlessly and fell to my demise. I only sought a prophecy, a superstitious practice that had grown obsolete…and I chose to kill you, Harry Potter, over countless other wars I could have waged. Can you guess then, why that may be?

Somewhere along the way, the voice shifts. It had started out as Tom Riddle’s younger voice, his soft and mocking lilt, but then it rises into a higher pitch, cold and amused, the voice of an older Tom Riddle. Voldemort. He listens to the echoes of this man, the voice of his soul.

They had never understood me, why I sought victory over you, Voldemort murmurs, were it not for that, I would have conquered Britain and more, of that I have no doubt.

It was the prophecy, Harry finally says flatly. You were afraid of a prophecy.  _Power the Dark Lord knows not…_

Your mother’s love? Voldemort laughs softly, menacing.  _Love?_ No, it was not that. It was never that.

Then what? Harry demands, irk getting the best of him. If it wasn’t love that ruined you—

Use that brain of yours, Voldemort says. Harry hears a faint, rumbling laughing. Use that clever head, and no doubt, you’ll figure it out—why, we’re almost there, so, so close…

Close to what? Harry snaps, but he hears the voice no more, and all he hears is Hermione calling his name in worry.

.

.

.

Alone, in a grey room, Voldemort sits and waits for a long time, until a shadowy figure emerges.

All these years you have waited, Death says. But you had not prepared yourself for this.

Voldemort’s face does not reveal anything. He merely inclines his head and does not look towards Death’s willowy frame.

Unfortunate, Death continues, seemingly musing to himself, that the boy had saved Draco Malfoy in the forest. This is quite a turn of plans, is it not? This is not the outcome you had anticipated.

It matters not, Voldemort says, his cold voice not betraying his anger, There will be yet another time to kill the Malfoy heir.

I fear it may be too late, Death says. And laughs. Death’s laughter is chilling; a gust of cold wind from the edges of the earth, a howl of wolves, and then, a complete and infinite silence.

Voldemort narrows his eyes but does not flinch at the sound.

You realize that there is already a bond between them, Death intones, Or have you not already seen the boy’s mindscape?

Irrelevant. Voldemort says, his voice frostier with each word. Bonds are easily broken. Souls, however, are not quite so simply destroyed.

And yet, you are afraid, Death muses. His arms spread out and his fingers flex. I can smell fear in you. Do you fear that Harry Potter will kill you before he knows? He is doing quite a marvelous job. He is setting out to think he must destroy your fragmented souls once more.

At last, Voldemort turns, meeting Death’s hooded figure. His eyes are alit and ablaze, an inferno of emotions that come from years of disintegration, exile, emptiness. Voldemort’s lips move slowly.

I have waited all these years, patience overriding any curiosities that I had harbored since my youth, he says softly, at last allowing malice and anger to seep into his words, but not even my infatuations can guarantee Harry Potter’s life.

He looks away from Death and speaks once more with a flat voice, I have waited thus. I am able to wait much longer. Besides, he adds, allowing a small, ironical smile to creep up his white and skeletal face, Potter has not yet seen all the memories.

But he is getting close, Death says.

Yes, Voldemort agrees. His smile grows wider. He resembles his younger self as he smiles, a peculiar shadowy corpse of Tom Riddle. He will soon see them all…and he will have to choose.

Voldemort laughs. It resembles Death’s hollow laughter.

 

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

On Christmas Day, Harry Potter awakens.

It is the ward nurse who screams out the news at last, but no one takes any heed. He had already woken up once before, but had soon drifted off to slumber again. No one could find out what was wrong with him; only that he was not breathing. He had awoken to be a living ward’s nightmare, but had quietly dropped off to slumber again. Auror Weasley had asked dubiously if that was normal. The Healers had soothed him, as long as Mr Potter’s magical signature was not gone…but even they exchanged uneasy looks. Auror Weasley did not put up much fuss, after he had picked up a small piece of parchment from Mr Potter’s bedside.

“At the very least, we can make him comfortable,” he said, but he wrinkled his nose in distaste as he read the note. He gave out a disgusted sigh. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Is there something wrong?” one of the Healers asked nervously.

“No, just that Mr Potter is a bloody teddy bear all set out to save old schoolmates and the like,” Auror Weasley said, and sighed again, as if this particular thought greatly aggravated him. “Bloody hell, Harry, Malfoy better be worth it. It’s not just easy to take him out of Azkaban when you’re _passed out_ and he’s the suspect…”

With those mystifying words, Auror Weasley swept out of the room, after making the Healers promise that they will notify him when something arose.

When Harry opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the whiteness of the room. He feels groggy, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep. Almost like death, he thinks. The bed is very soft under him. His body feel heavy. He tries to take a breath and he smells his own breath. Putrid. His neck hurts. _Everything_ hurts. He moves his hand slowly, and raises it slowly, blocking out the glaring light. It looks waxen and deathly pale; for a brief, terrifying moment, he remembers Voldemort’s hands. He tries to sit up and ends up coughing violently instead.

 _It’s not very nice, this land of the living, is it?_ A voice in his head. That too, is now familiar. Why is it so? He has long accepted the Riddle-like voice in his head, without even thinking for a minute that perhaps he was crazy, thinking about his dead nemesis. Tom Riddle does not seem dead anymore.

Yesterday, and all the days that came before that, now seemed to him from a place far away. Yesterday he had sat in the Great Hall and laughed while Ron and Hermione ganged up on Malfoy. They were having a food fight. Or, rather, Malfoy threw a toast at Ron and Ron threw an apple at Malfoy and Hermione was bemoaning how boys were such _idiots_ , which made Malfoy turn and throw another piece of toast at her. By that time, Harry had lost count and just watched, bemused at the surreal scene where Malfoy was being pummelled by bananas from both Gryffindors.

Malfoy had been watching him. Throughout the day, ever since the incident in the forest, Malfoy snuck glances behind his back, quickly pretending otherwise when Harry bothered to turn to meet Malfoy’s gaze. Harry was half-tempted to ask Malfoy what was his problem. He was half-tempted to jest about him about pureblood debts. But Malfoy’s face was scrunched up horribly, looking confused and exhausted when he thought no one was looking. Whenever he caught Harry’s eye, however, Malfoy soon reverted back to his typical sneer. It was quickly becoming tiring. He had saved Malfoy the child; he saved Riddle the child. What next, will I save Snape? he thinks to himself, sardonic.

And then,

and then what?

Nothing; there was a grey room. There was Voldemort and Death. Tea buddies, just as he thought they would be. He had watched them from afar and could not hear their voices. He did not feel very amused at the sight of them, in their skeletal figures and hooded cloaks, but it seemed as if he was doomed to be their unknown audience. Death laughed. A moment later, Voldemort, too, laughed.

It was the laughter that woke him, he would later think. But he could not remember what that sounded like.

So he awakes. The ward nurse screams. He blinks, and roughly rubs his eyes. He feels very, very tired. As if he had awoken from a long sleep, or had walked across the land of the dead and back again to the living realm.

It wasn’t just a dream, was it? he asks himself. Because…Hermione and Ron remembered me—or at least, a small part of me— when I became a Slytherin. Perhaps Malfoy does too.

.

.

.

“You are such a pain in the ass,” Ron says, the moment he comes in, “I regret the day I sat next to you on the train when I was eleven.”

But Ron is grinning, all smiles. Next to him, Hermione’s eyes have already begun to water, and she elbows Ron sharply for his troubles.

“You’re a fine one to talk, the way you’ve been trying to track the curse while Harry’s been ill,” Hermione says roughly, ignoring Ron’s grunt, “Oh, Harry! You’re awake! Again, I should add. Are you going to drop dead anytime soon?” she adds, with a sharper glint in her eyes.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says, with a trying smile of his own, “But I don’t think I can control that, can I?”

“I don’t know, it seems as if you can,” Hermione says darkly, but she sits by his bedside and takes his hand. Her grip is soft and comforting. “You left a bedside note just before you stopped breathing again. Ron was very mad over it, and I—”

“Hermione was so sure it was Malfoy, she agreed with me for once—” Ron says, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, because it seemed like Malfoy was confounded you, forcing you to release him, and god knows what else—oh, don’t give me that look, Harry Potter, what was I supposed to do, when you weren’t breathing for weeks?” Hermione gives his hand a tight squeeze and he grimaces. “So I went to Azkaban and the guards—they weren’t very happy to see me, but they couldn’t well turn down a Ministry employee from the Law Enforcement, could they? So they let me in to see Malfoy and—”

“How is he?” Harry interrupts, sitting up from the bed and wincing. “Malfoy, I mean.”

“Horrible,” Hermione replies, pursuing her lips. “ _You_ look awful right now, Harry, since you’ve only been living off tubes and potions since you couldn’t eat—but Malfoy looked even worse then you. He wasn’t going to deny anything. He asked me how you were.”

“If you were dead yet, in his own words,” Ron adds, frowning. “I went round for questioning too, and yeah, he looked bloody awful. I thought I’d give him a punch or something, the way he’s been such pain ever since you’ve passed out, but the thing is—” he pauses and gives Harry a very funny look. “I didn’t hate him enough for that. Not like I used to anyhow. I mean, he’s still a stupid ferret and everything. But I didn’t want to actively strangle him. I felt sorry for him, if you can believe that.” He shudders a little as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You wanted to actively strangle him before?” Hermione looks as if she wants to show disapproval at this.

“I wanted to plummet him into a fistfight, of course, what do you expect? He was _Malfoy_.” Ron shrugs again, looking unperturbed. “And he was such a lousy git when he was back in Grimmauld Place with you, Harry, he was so full of himself, thinking you were imposing on him, when it was the other way around—”

“He was in custody, of course he wouldn’t be in his jovial moods,” Harry says, and Ron snorts at him.

“Yeah, see, there you go, defending him as if Malfoy needs defending—but anyway, he wasn’t such a horrible bastard, at least. He didn’t even pause to insult me, just asked me straight off if you were alive. Isn’t that a weird way to ask a question, though?” He shakes his head. “I told him you weren’t breathing, but you left a very nice little afterlife note for me to chew on—and he was half-hysterical when he saw it. I mean, you’d think he’d be grateful, or something, seeing as you’re doing your best to free him—and all he does is go on a mad little rant of how Potter is an idiot. I nearly joined him on his tirade there, myself.” Ron gives him a flat look. “Because you are, you know. A massive idiot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry says with a small smile. Hermione makes a disgusted sound. “But I promised you, didn’t I?” He looks at Hermione, who does not take her eyes away from him, and back at Ron. “I told you I’d be back.”

“That you did,” Ron says gravely. His smile falls off. Ron looks solemn, studying Harry as if he had truly died and came back again, and did not know how to take everything in. Ron’s eyes are so very blue, Harry realizes with a small start. Ron’s lanky figure stands in front of him, imposing. Ron repeats himself as if he could not believe it. “That you did—you came back.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and clears his throat. “And I. Didn’t try to mess up anything while I was—wherever I was, Hermione, so. You can stop glaring at me like that.”

“I wasn’t glaring at you—oh, fine, maybe a little.” Hermione’s face breaks out into a wobbly smile, and she squeezes his hand one more time, this time more gently, before letting go. “You were destroying out timelines. I could feel you in my memories. I’m sure Ron felt it too, even though he didn’t tell me about it.”

“Malfoy was in shock,” Ron agrees, his eyes still on Harry. “I mean, I think he was surprised that _he_ didn’t immediately want to tackle me to the ground.”

His throat becomes dry. He tries to swallow. “So…he remembers?” he asks, slowly and carefully.

Ron gives him an exasperated eyeroll. “ _Yes,_ he remembers. He’s horrified, by the way. I think he knows you’re his friend now.”

He ignores his erratic heartbeats. He manages to mimic Ron’s eyeroll and say flatly, “How are we all going to cope with this, after everything?” And hears Hermione’s startled choking laughter, Ron’s sigh, and Riddle’s hiss.

I’m back, he thinks, then wonders, but am I back?

.

.

.

Step into the grey room, the waste land of your dreams. Step inside, and come, walk with me.

He does not resist this voice, despite knowing where it may lead him. To his death? But no—he cannot seem to die, it seems. Riddle does not want him dead. He is a horcrux, is he not? There is nothing to be afraid of. He had never been afraid of death, after all. It has been a long time since he feared Tom Riddle.

He steps inside and Riddle awaits him. They meet from across the room, watching each other. With wariness and amusement, neither tries to get the first word in. All is silent for a moment.

You were a very stupid child, Harry finally speaks, and has the pleasure of seeing Riddle’s face flash with irritation. Are you going to point a wand at me for saying that? Kill me again while you’re at it?

You do love to gloat so on the misfortune of others, Riddle says dryly, but does not bother to take out his wand. You know as well as I do that such magic does not work here. Otherwise we would have killed each other long ago.

Harry gives him a grim smile. Riddle returns it.

So, Harry says, looking around with feigned surprise, No tea kettles to put on? No armchairs? No heartening talks between us?

No, Riddle says, ignoring his jeer. Not today.

Got more memories that I should know about, then?

We’re going for a walk, Riddle says.

A walk? This is a room, in case you haven’t’—

The walls dissipate.

Oh, yes, Of course. This is a dream, how silly of me to forget. Harry feels light-headed and quite gay, a feeling foreign to him in Riddle’s presence. Riddle does not seem to mind being mocked at in this manner, though, it seems. Riddle returns his glib words with a quiet smile of his own, and his eyes do not betray any irritation he may harbor. An unreadable Riddle is a dangerous one, he knows. But Riddle only says, “Let us go then, you and I,” and pauses. Harry raises an eyebrow at the stilted words, is sure that he is missing an obscure reference only Riddle knows, but he concurs to Riddle’s gesture and walks forth to the unknown.

They walk, Riddle and he, in their grey world of nothing and fog, an infinite space. They walk onwards, with no destination in sight. He does not speak. He does not look next to him to see Riddle talking softly to him, to himself, at times. He finds that it does not matter.

Riddle’s cheeks are hollow and skin deathly pale, but still Harry finds him eerily unworldly and handsome. He thinks he had always found this monster so. He would have been a fool to have refuted otherwise.

Do you find me attractive, Harry? Riddle says then, laughing and carefree. It sounds awkward; Riddle does not know how to make jokes that are not sinister, it seems.

I can find you handsome and still think you’re a sociopath, Harry says. For some reason, this has Riddle laughing once more, this time a genuine chuckle.

They walk together, side-by-side, neither raising a wand to kill each other, neither quite close enough to brush against one another. But close. Close.

It’s funny, Harry says. Seeing you for more than ten seconds and not having murderous impulses. He finally slants a look towards Riddle. Riddle is humming under his breath. I haven’t seen you for awhile. Here in the grey room like this. Properly having a conversation.

You were too busy killing off my souls. Riddle’s eyes darken, but his voice continues to be pleasant. Did you enjoy murder, then? Dumbledore must be very proud.

Did you enjoy murder, when you were killing off people to spilt your souls? Harry throws back, matching Riddle’s soft sweetness. He is getting better at imitating Riddle’s casual demeanor. That _is_ how you make a horcrux, isn’t it?  

Yes, Riddle says, unconcerned. It’s quite simple, once you learn the logistics of it all.

People don’t make horcruxes because they find it difficult to kill people, Harry points out. They don’t make them because it’s wrong.

Wrong? Or immoral? Riddle stretches his arms and rolls his head backwards. What a boring word. Don’t be drab again, Harry. And we were getting along so well.

And before Harry could reply to that outrageous remark, Riddle throws him a smirk and speaks softly, cajoling, a tone that he had never quite used before,

“Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table,”

“What?” Harry balks, horrified and a little amazed, and Riddle laughs a little again, that mortifying, awkward sound, looking young and, _yes_ , dashing; Harry could easily imagine Riddle as a student, swooning everyone left and right with his charming looks and soft, deceptive voice, and those eyes that gleam. He hears Riddle’s words clearly for the first time, it seems; the words rush through his ears. He had never heard Riddle’s voice before in such a way.

It’s a pity about his eyes, Harry thinks unconsciously, those dark eyes suit him. He shakes his head to banish such a troubling thought.

Riddle continues on, his smirk now wider and sly, as if he knew just how his charms worked on Harry,

“Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats 

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells,”

“That is horrible imagery,” Harry says, “That is—what is that? What are you—what are you _saying_?”

Riddle continues on in a mocking lilt, seemingly delighted with Harry’s horror-struck expression, and Riddle laughs a little himself, as if he knew what a joke he was pulling off just by saying such words,

“Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’

Let us go and make our visit.”

“Can you stop,” he says, laughing since he couldn’t very well strangle Riddle to make the other boy shut up, “Stop, that is—is that a poem? Are you reciting poetry to me? You’re mad, that’s what you are.”

“My Muggle professor was a fool,” Riddle says, still smiling, “He had his eccentric habits. He loved to make us memorize famous Muggle poets, for one. I thought it was dreadfully tedious at times—but then, of course, that was before I met you.”

“It’s a dreadful shame, those wasted years,” Harry agrees, mock-solemn, and shakes his head. “That was nauseating. Don’t ever do that again. We hate each other, in case you've forgotten.”

“And I became dreadfully bored by your company and thought to amuse myself.” Riddle sighs, and then smiles again. A sharper smile. Harry has a sense of foreboding. “Or shall I recite other lessons my Muggle professor had offered to me as a student?”

“If it’s another poem—”

“It’s about _Óðinn._ Or shall I say—Odin.”

Harry stops in his tracks. Riddle continues to walk and Harry is left to stare at his back, his lithe form, dark shadowy form.

“I know you want to ask me about him, Harry, ever since you’ve read that delightful little book. _‘Who does Voldemort want to be—Loki or Odin?’_ Really, Harry—what a crass way to form a question.”

Riddle does not sound angry at this. He sounds as he always does in his contemptuous amusement.

"Odin. Let’s talk about him, shall we? Odin, the chief god of the tribe of northern deities, but also a wanderer who takes great delight in taking walks that venture far from the gods’ kingdom, Asgard. He does not seek the salvation of others and is a curious god who wants to know everything. For his own self-interests, mind, because he does not care for anything but himself. He’s a relentless seeker of wisdom, but has little regard for justice. He is not a law abiding god. Why, he is the ruler of both the rulers and outcasts. He is a war-god, but does not treat war as a noble and honorable cause. He believes in the good war that hallows any cause—Odin incites war, finds glee in it and its brutality. He evokes savage beauty and war, and the dead.

“He does not concern himself with the reasons why ordinary men fight—he is interested only in the chaotic frenzy of war, and he only honors the men who have fought valiantly and heroically. The rest he does not quite care enough to raise them from the dead. He is devious and inscrutable, both the highest ruler and trickster, and he prefers greatness above fairness. He is also favorable to bandits and outcasts who believe rules to be below them, apathetic to societal norms and who wage a war against all.

“Odin is limited in his powers—he is not immortal, after all. So he seeks for power and wisdom relentlessly, and is ready to throw away many things, his eye, for instance, for a glimpse of wisdom. He also sacrificed his life to acquire his powers, and he emerged, victorious.

“Odin is referred as the god to have conquered death, and he is often evoked when men sacrifice their lives in his name. In battles, it was his name that men cried out, and they sacrifice themselves—just as Odin had sacrificed himself for himself, _gefinn Óðni, sjálfr sjálfum mér—_ and Odin collects the bravest, the ablest of those men, and takes them to the prestigious dwelling-place of the dead, Valhalla. Here he trains them, and waits for the day the world to end, when he may face off the wolf that will eventually kill him. He prepares for that moment, hoping to thwart death—although he knows all is futile. He will die in the twilight of the gods, and he will not emerge in the new world that is to come.”

Riddle would have made an intense professor. Harry watches how Riddle’s mouth moves to pronounce each word, succinctly and precisely, how Riddle’s words come out elegantly but with a certain stumbling quality that makes it evident that Riddle is not used to explaining anything. He sounds like a scholar, sure in his mind that he knows everything, but less sure of how he can convey his brightness to the outside world. Sometimes Riddle hesitates on his words, but resumes again in a pompous manner, repeating certain phases, redefining others. He talks to Harry and not quite towards him, a faraway look in his eyes. Harry is not his audience; it is his voice, speaking onto himself. Harry listens to Riddle speak, that voice ringing in his ears. He is reminded of the torn parchment, scribbled with Riddle’s neat handwriting—Odin’s sacrifice of himself to himself—tucked neatly between sheets inside Dumbledore’s book.

“So he did not conquer death,” Harry finally says, when it seems that Riddle would not continue.

“No,” Riddle says quietly, at last his eyes focusing on him, glinting knowingly, “No, not even Odin had managed to subdue Death.”

“Death isn’t something to be subdued,” Harry says, thinking of his various and fleeting encounters with Death, “Death is…something to be accepted. Maybe Odin was too clever for his own good.”

“Perhaps,” Riddle says. His voice loses the calm, academic tone and is back to light mockery. “But it was an interesting lesson all the same. Odin the allfather—god of war, god of the dead, and,” Riddle allows another smirk to curve up, “god of poetry.”

“God of everything you set out to be, it seems,” Harry says dryly, “Although I didn’t know you even bothered with such rot. Poetry?”

“I forgot I had.” Riddle tilts his head and taps one finger against his chin. Thin, spindly fingers. “I seem to have forgotten many things from my youth, it seems.”

“Aren't you young?” Harry points out. “In this timeline, I mean. Or in this form. Whatever you’d like to call it, I suppose.”

“I am dead,” Riddle says flatly, raising an eyebrow. “Or has that escaped your mind? I am dead, so I am therefore…timeless, you could say. Memories are all I have now,” he says abruptly. Riddle thins his lips. “Memories, and your dreamscape.”

“Liar,” he says, and he’s surprised (should he be?) at how his tone sounds similar to Riddle’s own; that word belongs to Riddle, him and his accusations, “You’re not dead. Your body is gone, but your soul—you’re still inside me.”

Riddle does not bother to answer to that. He continues to smile, and Harry continues to watch him. He watched the other boy until the fog closes around him, and he cannot see anything, surrounded by nothingness.

Somewhere once more, he hears a voice, distant, There’s still hope for your intellect, it seems. Followed by soft laughter.

Yes, Harry realizes, feeling drained, closing his eyes. Riddle’s voice sounds quite real.

Riddle does not feel like a dream anymore.

Fucking poetry, he thinks, irritated and a little flustered. That is the last thought he has before he sinks into oblivion.

.

.

.

He opens his eyes. Whiteness blinding him. Voices. And then—silence.

Until, a singular, raspy voice jolts him completely awake.

“If you’re awake, Potter, it’s good courtesy to let people know that you are. You can’t be that much of an attention seeker at this age.”

He turns his head slowly towards the voice.

Hermione was right. Draco Malfoy looks horrible, in his grey robes with his gaunt, shallow face. Malfoy needs a haircut. He looks a little like his father, with his disheveled blond hair. He at least looked clean in his prisoner garbs, Harry thinks blindly, before he quickly tries to sit up and gasp out, “Malfoy,” before doubling over and wincing. His entire body hurts. He lets out a guttural cry.

“Oh—for—Merlin’s—” Malfoy quickly gets up from his seat and frantically grips one of his arms, “Potter, if you’re going to black out _again_ , I will personally skin you—”

What a Riddle-like threat, he thinks, before a chuckle escapes him. He chokes instead. Do all Slytherins like making jokes about mutilating the body? No wonder I couldn’t fit in.

“Potter, breathe. Breathe!” Malfoy’s hands press his back firmly, and rubs his arms. It is an unfamiliar warmth. “I just got out of bloody Azkaban, I don’t fancy going back again because you want to drop dead. Again.”

He raises a hand and Malfoy stops talking immediately.

“You’re out,” he says, and coughs a hacking cough. He looks up to see Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at him. How older he is, Harry thinks, surprised. Child-Malfoy looms in his vision, with his slicked hair and arrogant eyes. Innocent. Did he truly think Malfoy was once innocent? Here now stands a Malfoy he had known for many years. Nemesis, Death Eater, prisoner. How…grown he is. How different he seems.

“You have Granger to thank for that,” Malfoy says stiffly, hand still resting on his back. “You also have Weasley to thank for doing a terrible job, mucking up my records in the Ministry—how he became an Auror, of all things…”

“You’re alive,” he says, but that is the wrong thing to say, because of course Malfoy is alive, so he manages to laugh properly this time and amends, “You’re so _old_ , Malfoy.”

Malfoy sneers at him. “You’re a loony, Potter, never forget I was the first one who told you that.” He hesitates, looking at his hand. Harry thinks that Malfoy would now flinch violently and remove his hand, and exclaim how his hand was dirtied. Or make some sort of childish fuss that would seem normal; more normal at least, than this mutual anxiety that they want to address. The room is too stifling for such confessions. He cannot get his lips to move: Malfoy, tell me I was in Slytherin. Tell me that you didn’t actively hate me; tell me you helped destroy a piece of Voldemort’s soul.

Perhaps, he thinks, dizzy with the myriad of possibilities running through his head, none plausible, it would be better if Malfoy mauled me again and kissed me. It wouldn’t be as bizarre as us being civil to one another.

But Malfoy, after pausing, moves his hand away from Harry’s back, and reaches out again to clasp Harry’s limp one.

Harry stares. All the words he had wanted to say become meaningless.

“You’re _alive_ ,” Malfoy whispers, his voice very harsh and angry, but also—and he hears it but cannot _believe his ears_ — relieved, “You’re fucking alive, Potter, and fuck, I thought—but. No, you’re fine. You’ve just a knack for dropping dead all the bloody time.” Malfoy laughs a little. It sounds unhinged. Harry stares at him.

“Yes,” he says, slowly, looking down at their clasped hands. Malfoy’s hand is trembling. His grip is painful. Pain. How had pain felt? The grip is deathly. He does not pull away.

“I feel so—off,” Malfoy whispers. He is not looking at Harry while he speaks. “When they told me you were awake, the first thing I remembered wasn’t us, back in your hideous house. Remember _that_ , getting horribly drunk? You were always up your nose in some book I was sure you didn’t understand—either that or in your filthy armchair. But no, not those days. It was us—much younger. We were in the library. Granger was with us, and she was trying to convince me that the book we wanted wasn’t there, and I was so irritated at her nagging voice—” he stops, his breath ragged. He laughs a little. “I feel as if I’ve gone mad,” he whispers. He too, finally looks at Harry and his lips curve into a self-deprecating smile. “Tell me that madness isn’t contagious, Potter. I can’t live out my days as a mad werewolf, of all things. What will—” his voice shakes, “What will my parents say to that?”

He tries to speak. Swallow, breath. Staring into Malfoy’s eyes is not helping. Looking at that thin face, that older, paler face—is definitely not helping. If everything had been a dream…

He croaks, “What house was I Sorted into?”

Malfoy grimaces and tries not to answer, but he is insistent; this time, it is he who squeezes their joined hands and repeats, more urgent, “Malfoy. _Draco._ What house?” Malfoy’s name sounds foreign in his ears, but it is fine; it gets the job done, at least. Malfoy jerks in surprise and looks wildly about, as if he cannot believe still that this is all real. White walls, brightness, silence. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in a hospital ward, hand intertwined in a vice-grip, not in a hurry to kill off the other.

“I’d like to say—Gryffindor,” Malfoy says, and for one, brief horrible moment, Harry feels his heart sink, air leaving his lungs, “But that’s not all. You—were also in Slytherin. You were with me, in our common room when I first came to Hogwarts. Mad as a hatter. Disastrous. But then later…I can’t remember you there. Not at our tables. I remember—hollering at you across the Great Hall and then, you were wearing…Gryffindor robes.”

He lets out a breath. He nods, and nods again, because he does not have it in him to adequately express the relief he feels.

“I—I remember you, Potter,” Malfoy continues in a stuttering tone. Malfoy’s voice is harsh and he croaks his words out as if he had not spoken for a long time. Or perhaps during his brief stay in Azkaban he had screamed aloud at the four enclosed walls until his voice grew hoarse and he had no power left to compose himself, Harry does not know. “I remember you as a Gryffindor, obviously, but what I mean is that. I remember you as a Slytherin too, and you told me—” Malfoy shakes his head and does not look at him as his whispers out, “Well, never mind that. It was just a dream, wasn’t it? I just…I haven’t been in my right mind you see, the Dementors…”

“Draco,” he says. He is happy, no, fucking elated, staring at this broken man in front of him, twisting his fingers about, darting his eyes left and right, and Harry does not know what to do, how to make this all better, “You remember me?” As a Slytherin, he means. Who tried to save you again, you maddening arse. You were a right prickly child, I’ll have you know, with your pointy chin and annoying eyes trying to catch me at everything I do. “You…you didn’t say. When I last came to see you.” When you were quite off your mind and pinned me to the wall to have your dirty way with me, he leaves out. Or perhaps Malfoy had hinted at something or the other. His memory is foggy from the words Malfoy must have said, too focused on what Malfoy had actually did. He had hissed unintelligible words and refused to repeat them, choosing to put his mouth for better uses.

He does not say, but then again, he does not need to.

Malfoy looks at him at that, a quick glance before his eyes swerve to the white walls. “So it wasn’t just a dream then,” he whispers.

“I—no. No, it was pretty real.” Harry forces out a smile. “What gives?”

“You’d have never called me by my given name in any sane universe, except perhaps in the one that we’ve just left.” Malfoy pauses. “Or the one that you just left behind and I was witness to your maddening schemes.” He shakes his head a little and lets out a small laugh that sounds broken for all the wrong reasons. “You were in Slytherin,” he says, and repeats the word. “Slytherin. You, Golden Boy, precious, _Saint_ Potter, were in Slytherin.”

“Yes, Malfoy, we’ve moved past that, keep up,” he says, but he can’t help but let out a smile himself, as Malfoy just shakes his head and mutters.

Malfoy stops. Takes a breath. “You saved me. I remember. _Him_ —and the forest.”

“Seems I do that quite a bit, sure.”

“Why do you do that? It’s infuriating.”

“You’ll learn to live with it,” Harry says dryly, “After all, after I get out of this room, you’ll be stuck with me again, won’t you.”

Unless your custody moved on to another person, or better yet, you are no longer a werewolf any longer. He swallows his words and waits for Malfoy’s reply.

But Malfoy does not offer him any information that he can chew on. He gives a sharp nod and that is the end of their anticlimactic reunion.

You can let go of my hand now, Harry does not want to say. Malfoy’s grip is surely breaking his bones, but oddly enough, it is reassuring. It means he can feel, that he is alive.

I am alive, he thinks. Feels.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Riddle quotes is from T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock--and you can be sure that it's NOT a happy love poem, if it is a love poem at all. When Riddle quotes the first words of the poem to Harry, he leaves out the epigraph intentionally, which comes out from Dante's Inferno, and we all know what THAT was all about lol.... Eliot is such a snob and such a beautiful writer, I felt that if Riddle was going to quote anyone in the English language, it would have been him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure I'll edit this portion sometime this week as I'm sure I left some tidbits out...but urgh, I'm too tried to read over this now. I was drafting up how I wanted this fic to go and I finally have my ending (or close to it). I THINK it should come around 250,000 words? Also, all my later scenes are so fucked up, I feel like I should apologize for it beforehand. Especially the scenes when Tom comes in. Like...wow. I hope no one thinks I'm mentally deranged or anything like that.Truth to be told, I had so much fun writing the Tom/Harry scenes because I never wrote anything so psychologically mind-wrecking. It makes Drarry look like a fluffy, safe ship.

No one is happy to see each other.

“So,” he begins brightly, “I imagine that this is a shock for everyone involved, but. You know. No more time mismanagement from my side of the bed.” He pauses. “Metaphorically speaking, I meant.”

“We know what you meant,” Hermione says, her face set grimly. She is more successful in concealing her hostility. Ron and Malfoy don’t even bother replying to him, so busy they are at glaring at one another from across his bedside. He shifts around awkwardly and clears his throat.

“And,” he continues, determining that they will talk about this, and that they will shove off every petty and not-so-petty incident under the (again, metaphorical) rug so that they could compare notes and see where he had blundered with his time travels, “We all seem to…have some common memories that were distorted? Shared?” Silence. More glaring. Malfoy’s lips curl and Ron’s eyes narrow. Hermione makes an impatient sound. Finally, he snaps. “Could we at least pretend that we’re all on the same side? Ron, you helped Malfoy get out of Azkaban!”

“That was Hermione,” Ron says, mulish with a steely glint. “And just because you made him into a nice, friendly Slytherin while you were—” he pauses, his face scrunched up, “—going back in time? Muddling back in our memories? What would you call that?” He turns to Hermione, desperate. “Maybe we should all check ourselves in for Mind Healers. I don’t think it’s too late.”

“Maybe Harry can explain just how he went back into time at all.” Hermione’s voice is frosty and calm, and she had not spoken voluntarily until now. She sits with her arms crossed and back straight, and Harry has really not missed this side of her. “You said that it wasn’t a time-turner the first time you came back to us.”

“No,” he agrees.

“No Dark Artifacts?” Hermione presses, and again he shakes his head.

“It’s just very strange, because I only have a very small memory of you being in Slytherin—I’d be tempted to laugh it off as a horrible dream if it wasn’t just me.” She pauses. “You do realize that everyone in our year will now remember you as a Slytherin?”

“No one cares, Granger,” Malfoy finally speaks. He sneers. “The rest of the world has better things to do then wonder about Potter’s House affiliations.”

“I’m sure,” Hermione returns coolly, “But the memories are just coming to me in sudden bursts, and I don’t think it’s something that everyone is going to take lightly. Sooner or later, someone’s going to the papers with their visions.” She throws an exasperated look at him. “And Harry waving flashy spells in his first year is not really helping me forget about him, either.”

“I was trying to stop Voldemort from resurrecting?” Harry intones, looking up at the ceiling. “Can’t any of you appreciate that?”

“And enslaving us like house-elves in the library for the Hallows?” Ron asks, raising an eyebrow. “And—metaphor, Hermione, metaphor!”

“And trying to kill off the Dark Lord’s souls while you’re at it, too,” Malfoy mutters under his breath.

Ron sucks in a breath; Hermione whirls on him. “Harry! You didn’t.”

“I didn’t?” he repeats weakly.

“You dragged Draco Malfoy to kill off a horcrux?” Hermione snaps.

“You told him about You-Know-Who’s—”

“ _A_ horcrux? So there are more of them out there?” Malfoy asks, finally letting go of his sneer. Ron chokes and Hermione gives him a grim look.

“No. No. Harry,” Hermione glares at him and he scoots backwards on the bed. He avoids her eyes. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“The locket was in Grimmauld Place,” he says, talking to his hands, “It would’ve been so easy—”

Hermione makes the same strangled noise again.

“And Malfoy just tagged along, it wasn’t as if I could stun him!” he throws in desperately.

“Not to mention I had a marvelous time with Potter’s godfather,” Malfoy snipes. “And I had detention. Meeting—” He stops, takes a breath. “Were it up to me to face off Dementors and _Him_ , I’d rather choose the Dementors,” he continues evenly.

“Don’t we all,” Ron says. Some of his hostility slips. “So Malfoy got the full blunt of tagging along with the Savior of the Wizarding World this time around, eh? Can’t say that I envy you.”

“Oh, yes, Harry in his first few years just goes looking for unnecessary trouble,” Hermione says darkly.

“ _Only_ the first few years?”

 “Well, after Voldemort came back, it’s not as if we could have blamed Harry for everything anymore, could we?”

“I don’t think I missed hearing that name,” Malfoy mutters, giving Hermione a revolted look. “It’s bad enough that Potter says it…”

“He’s dead,” Hermione snaps. “In this timeline, at least. Can we get that over your head? This is ridiculous, and you still haven’t told us, Harry. We won the war, and it’s been ten years. Why would you try to go back in time? You triggered something.” Hermione has that cold glint in her eyes. She studies him. “You wanted to change something. But _what?_ ”

He opens his mouth. _What?_ He tries to speak. _What?_ He wants to explain. _What?_

Death’s voice. _Everything you have wished for, it is now yours. The public laud your name, your enemies vanquished. You have nothing you lack; your world is at peace. Only your demons haunt you, monsters you barely keep at bay. You have nothing you can ask of me. But what is it you wish, Master of Death? Why do you summon me so?_

For ten years he heard the whispers of Death, thinking that it was his own mind going mad from sitting by his cold hearth day after day. But the voices grew shaper with time with Teddy’s death, he finally found a voice inside him that nagged at him for a reply: _this isn’t the world that I fought for, died for._

_Let them live, let those who died come back from the dead._

_Let me have another chance, let me bring about a better result, a satisfactory end._

And Death had laughed at him until he obliged, and he had fell forth through the past and did not succeed in accomplishing everything he wanted.

What had he wanted? Why, that was simple. He wanted a world that had escaped his war.

Only, everything had thrown him in a loop. Only, Tom Riddle festered inside his mind and tormented him. Only, once again, Voldemort seemed to know him and of his plans. Only, Tom Riddle manifested as a child and a dream, and haunted him, made him question just what the fuck was going on.

Hermione’s glare morphs into a familiar sadness. “Harry,” she says, tired. She rubs her face wearily and sighs. “Oh, Harry.”

 The horcrux inside me did not die, Harry thinks, numbly, his hand clutching at his chest. He felt nothing. That was what I learned when I traveled in time. And I couldn’t do anything with the rest. What was it you said to me, Hermione? Wizards who meddle with time, they who meet their terrible ends.

“I wanted to stop the war.” It sounds idiotic now when he finally lets it slip, the incessant need to rewrite history, the clawing inside his head that he could not rid himself of, not after Teddy’s death, especially not after Teddy’s death. How he had begged Death to play god to his past, to go back into a time when he thought he knew enough to prevent everything that was undesirable. “I thought that I—could have prevented it. Stop him from coming back.” He lets out a breath. “But time—I couldn’t stay permanently. Something kept pulling me away from living there.”

Something like Tom Riddle’s memories. Something like Draco Malfoy’s mindscape.

He does not look at Malfoy as he says this.

“Because you already have this timeline,” Hermione’s voice is bitter. “Because you’re already _here_. You do realize that normal timer-turners wouldn’t make you fall over and make you stop breathing?”

“I—yes, we once set the time back to save Buckbeak, I remember.” He does not mention Sirius. Instead, he clumsily turns towards where Malfoy is sitting rigidly on the hospital chair, and looks his set shoulders, still avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry you had to go to Azkaban because of me,” he says, voice slow and awkward to come out. “I know it must’ve been hell.”

“It was,” Malfoy says.

“I’d have stopped them if I could.”

“So I had already told the Aurors.” Malfoy’s voice is empty. None of the desperation resounds from their private encounter. Here with his friends, presented with the newly modified memories and their past existing ones, Malfoy is thrown is a loop.

“Harry, you stopped the war. When you—” Hermione stops. Ron beings up a hand to stop her, holds her shaking hand. They do not talk about those days. Not even amongst themselves, they did not talk about how he had walked towards his death and lived as if he was dying.

“I could have stopped him altogether.” His voice is hollow. These are words that have continually roamed around his mind, days and weeks inside his own house, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. “I could have prevented his—”

“You’re delusional if you think that,” Malfoy cuts in tersely, “Potter, I know you have a massive amount of self-importance inside that fat head of yours, but you couldn’t have stopped _Him_. It’s a miracle you stopped him at all the first time around.”

Finally, Harry turns to look at Malfoy. Malfoy is staring at him with those pale eyes. He is struck by how bloodshot and tired they are. Not so innocent after all, not after what they had gone through, he thinks.

He then thinks, I saw child Voldemort standing in the middle of the London ruins, looking up at the black sky, waiting for death so that he could thwart it. I met a young madman who thought he could live because he had magic, and he did not fear the Muggle bombs that would have crushed his tiny body. I saw Tom Riddle who was just a stupid, egoistical child, so eager to prove himself. I saved him. I touched him. And in my dreams, he kissed me and I thought how familiar he felt, how natural it was. As if I had been craving that touch all my life.

He raises his hand and stops Malfoy’s tirade of words. Looks down and sees Malfoy’s trembling hand. He rests his own atop Malfoy’s pale one. Malfoy opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Ron and Hermione watch them. Ron’s face is aghast but Hermione’s is harder to read. She presses her lips tightly together and observes them, how Harry’s eyes flicker from their clasped hands to Malfoy’s face, how Malfoy tries to say something repeatedly and fails, choking instead. Their silence seems to last for a lifetime. Outside, life goes on: footsteps rushing about, voices calling in a frenzy. The clock ticks. Someone wails. Inside the four white walls, nothing. Ron is the one who manages to finally break it.

“What. Why are you guys looking at each other like—are you two _fucking_?” Ron says weakly, and that’s when the stillness shatters: Hermione snorts and shoves at Ron, Malfoy lets out a hissing cough and yanks his hand free, and Harry just laughs helplessly, his hand empty and lost, closing in on air where Malfoy’s hand was just a second ago.

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“We need to talk,” he says, stumbling on the steps of Grimmauld Place immediately. “Ow! Bugger this hallway, it’s still a shithole.”

Malfoy lurches out to give him a hand and immediately moves away as if his clumsiness is something contagious. His face is set into a permanent sneer.

“You know that talking never bodes down for either one of us,” he says archly, walking past him. “What was it those mindless Healers said? ‘Rest, Mr Potter, and come back for daily check-ups, don’t do anything arduous.’ Talking is arduous for you, Potter, in case that went through your head.”

“They said that you should be my nursemaid too, you forgot that bit,” he throws behind Malfoy’s back, rolling his eyes.

“I purposefully left it out, Potter. As if I don’t have better things to do than—”

“Malfoy,” he says firmly, finally standing straight enough to grab the other boy’s arm. “Stop being a prat and come into the dining room. We need to talk.”

Malfoy continues to sneer at him. His face is frozen in a cold mask. Usually such motions would have deterred him. Made him back off, hand in a placating gesture. But usually he would not have traveled back in time and destroyed a horcrux with Malfoy. Would not have saved Malfoy’s life from a Dark Lord.

“When I was back in first year,” he says slowly, trying to meet Malfoy’s eyes and read something there, “I couldn’t stay there because I kept visiting your mindscape. Back when we were in this dump. When you were in Azkaban.” He hesitates. “I heard you calling out for me when I fell.”

Malfoy’s face does not reveal anything. And yet the screams seem to echo around them, the walls seemingly holding Malfoy’s hysterical screams prisoner. Potter, Potter, I didn’t kill Potter. Malfoy’s lips press tightly together. His nostrils flare. And he, Harry, has nothing he can do but wait.

“We should eat,” Malfoy finally says, yanking free from the grip. He turns around and walks away. “Tell that horrid elf of yours to prepare us something. And then…” Malfoy pauses. He hears a sigh. “And then, yes, we’ll talk about this anomaly.”

He quirks a smile that Malfoy does not see. “Good.”

“Although, considering the time you’ve spent in the library before reading up about Dark Creatures, I’m surprised that you haven’t figured it out,” Malfoy says, already a few feet away from him.

“I’m surprised you’re giving me such credit to my intellect,” he says quietly, so that Malfoy wouldn’t reply with a predictable insult.

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They eat their meal silently, with Malfoy stirring up his plate without bringing anything to his mouth, with Harry sipping his tea.

“My parents are dead,” Malfoy says suddenly, breaking the silence. He pokes at the meat on his plate and does not look at Harry as he says this.

He sets down his cup.

“Yes,” he says carefully, “I…read about it.”

Malfoy looks up sharply at that. “It wasn’t publicized,” Malfoy says sharply.

He quickly shakes his head.

“No, I…” he stops. Starts again. “When I visited you in that cell, I thought there was something off about it. How the guards were talking to you, how you had a cell to yourself. I had my suspicions and checked with the…registrar.”

“Ah.” Malfoy takes in a sharp breath. A moment later, a sharp smirk comes up. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet, then. You’d make an Auror at this rate.”

He stays silent. He wonders if they should do away with the formalities. They are dead, after all. There was nothing that they could do any longer. He worries his lips and tries to find the right words. “I _am_ sorry about—”

“Don’t,” Malfoy says coldly. His eyes flash and his hand curls tightly. He watches how Malfoy contains his anger. “You didn’t care for them when you were alive, don’t try to pretend you care about them now that they’re dead.”

He looks down at his teacup. Looks around. The walls are the same. Only a few weeks ago, it seems, Sirius was alive and they were having a meal in this very room. Only a few weeks ago he had seen Sirius smile at him, accepted him for being a Slytherin.

“I never particularly liked them,” he says, slowly. “But I didn’t wish them dead.”

Malfoy does not say anything to that. He continues, “I don’t think they deserved those years after the war. You…didn’t deserve those years.”

“Yes, well.” Malfoy is silent. His silence makes Harry want him to understand, make him speak.

“I’ve let go of those grudges,” he says. “It’s been years.”

“Have you?” Malfoy’s voice sounds distant and aloof. “Funny that you’re always the epitome of Gryffindor idiocy. I’ve never forgotten the way you saved my life in that fire or that time when you spoke out for me at my trial.” Malfoy’s eyes twitch. “Let’s not forget the time when you took me in when I became a werewolf.”

“I didn’t take you in, stop making me into something I’m not—”

“You could have refused,” Malfoy continues, his voice strange; his eyes very bright and glaring, “You could have thrown a fit. All of them would’ve backed off if you did. You’re a fucking war hero, even though you’re also a depressed maniac, there was no way that they would’ve refused you.” Malfoy gives out a terse laugh. “But you like playing the hero, don’t you, Potter? You like assembling broken pieces and making them in your debt.”

“I don’t like—”

“You always save me,” Malfoy says. His voice finally cracks and anger seeps into his words. It sounds foul and desperate. “Why do you do that? We hate each other. You go back in time and sort yourself in Slytherin and then you decide to save me. Again. It’s a fucking nuisance from this side. Do you know how that feels?”

“I also almost had you killed,” he points out. “When we were destroying the locket.”

Malfoy curls his lips. “That doesn’t count. You were trying to save us from the Dark Lord. Salazar, Potter.” He laughs, high-pitched and shaking. Harry looks at the pale-faced man sitting across from him. “Either you save people or you save the world. Where does that leave you?”

“I don’t think you’re in my debt,” he says, giving up all pretense of eating. “I just think…that you didn’t deserve to die. Does it bother you that much, that I saved you? Those school year grudges, they don’t mean anything anymore, do they?”

Malfoy doesn’t reply. Malfoy stares at him, his laughter gone, smile slipping away. He grows weary, then impatient with the silence. He did not want to explain himself to Malfoy. Did not care to say: when I see your face, I see the lives that could have lived, sometimes I see the dead faces in the final battle, sometimes I see Teddy. I saw Teddy when I saved you in that forest. You were young, you were scared. Now I see you as an obnoxious child who grew up to be a prejudiced bully, and then I sometimes see your bloodied body splayed across the bathroom floor, taken down by a curse that I didn’t know was fatal. I never apologized for that and you never apologized for the ways in which you made my school years intolerable. And then when everything became meaningless, because the war finally began, when the deaths increased and torture became commonplace, you saved my life and I saved yours. That was when such grudges lost their poison, when I realized that you were also a child, that we were children fighting grown men’s crusades.

“How old do you think we are?” Harry asks, exasperated. He shifts around his pile of food and does not expect an answer. “Look at me, Malfoy— _Draco_ —we’ve changed, I’ve changed, so what—”

“Eleven.”

He looks up.

Malfoy looks defeated and worn without his sneer and cold smile; an unnatural look on him.

“Even before everything happened—you were always eleven inside my head, Potter,” Malfoy says tiredly. “You just…never grew up.”

Harry does not reply to that statement with eloquence. He pushes down back a choke. There are no forthcoming remarks.

Eleven. When Malfoy had nothing to fear from the world at large and when Harry was all too eager to leave behind his old world and embrace the new. When they met and sparks flew. When a handshake was refused. When they hated each other with simple sincerity that only children were capable of.

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Werewolf bonds are complicated things, Malfoy says at the dinner table, when they both cleared away their uneaten plates. Malfoy speaks in a flat monotone. Or he imagines the voice would be. Malfoy’s face is unreadable. Even I don’t understand half of it. Wolves are solitary creatures by nature, but werewolves are not something you would call natural…in certain points of the year, the wolf would take over the human, and the rational mind is suppressed and feral instinct takes over. You’d know, Lupin was a werewolf. (He nods. Malfoy does not make a derogatory remark.) I don’t think Remus Lupin had any bonds to speak of. Not that I’d know, but…bonds form in specific conditions. The werewolf lacks the rational mind and therefore craves what it sorely misses. It wants the bond to secure itself against itself—saving it from itself.

Because it’s afraid of turning wild? he asks.

Because it’s afraid that it might never return to its human form. It latches onto something human. How does it remember that it has never been a wolf? It remembers, or tries to remember what it’s missing out in the human world.

But when you turn into a wolf, it’s only…temporary. It’s a lapse, of sorts.

Possibly. Malfoy’s voice is clinical. More possible is that the human mind fights against the beast and tries to return back to the human form. It’s easier with the Wolfsbane, because you’re assured that your humanity never leaves you. You’re a wolf capable of thought. All you have to do is curl up in a corner and wait patiently for the moon cycle to change. You know that the transformation is transient.

And without the Wolfsbane…?

You don’t know whether you’re a wolf or human, do you? The beast dominates you. You don’t know what you are, who is waiting for you after you turn to the beast. What makes you human then? You might have killed off anyone. You might have done away with your family. They might not want anything to do with you. The wolf’s mind is vulnerable, and it’s more liable for attack. It’s dependent.

(Malfoy laughs at that, and Harry jerks a little. He knows that they are both thinking of Malfoy’s face pressed up against his neck back in Azkaban.)

It latches onto whatever human is willing. It asks itself: who is this human? Can I trust this person standing before me? Will this person kill me? It’s a self-serving mechanism. All animals possess it. If the human is considered safe, then the wolf doesn’t attack. If the wolf thinks it’s the _only_ human that it deems safe, then, well…

Malfoy pauses.

This is where you come in, I’m afraid. You’re the only person I have at the moment.

Malfoy’s voice is faraway and almost dreamlike when he speaks. Or are they speaking? Does he hear Malfoy’s voice? The dining room is sometimes silent; sometimes the stillness is broken by Malfoy’s stuttering words. He hears Malfoy inside his head even when Malfoy does not speak. Malfoy’s voice is faintly amused, hiding resignation.

I had some time to figure this out when I was holed up in Azkaban. You’re taking this better than I thought you would.

What did you do when you found out?

Found out that I shared a mind bond with you? When you were hearing my thoughts and I yours?

Malfoy’s voice hums.

I tried to hang myself.

He turns to Malfoy, eyes wide. He tries for a joke but his voice comes out anxious.

I didn’t think I’d be that much of a horrible choice—

Oh, grow up, Potter. Not everything was about you then. Malfoy’s voice descending. Quiet and spent. He holds his breath. I just learned my parents died and I was occupying their cell. I heard voices. I heard your voice. I thought I was going mad. I had nightmares about you. About—about someone else.

Malfoy does not speak the name but he hears it, nevertheless: Tom Riddle.

You remember Voldemort inside your head?

He summoned me, Malfoy says, bitter. Just like old times. Quite a pompous young deviant.

Malfoy pauses. So there I was, he continues, in the cell, hearing voices, going mad…so I tried to hang myself by the sheets. Didn’t work. The guards laughed at me. And then…I realized what that meant. If I wasn’t going mad and I still heard your voice…I figured it out when you visited me that one time.

His face flushes. Malfoy shoots him an incredulous smirk (are we getting flustered _now_?), then shrugs as if it is of no consequence.

The wolf inside me had always wanted to maul you, Potter. Ever since I came to this place, the wolf was begging to bite you. I kept it at bay. I wasn’t surprised by that, considering our history…but something was different when you visited me inside that cell. The wolf wanted to—well, there’s no other word for it. Claim you, I suppose. It wanted you. Malfoy’s nose scrunches. Merlin, that sounds ridiculous.

Disgusting, he agrees dryly. Malfoy gives him a frosty look.

I kept it at bay, he says coldly. Otherwise, the wolf would have been all too eager to bite you, mark you…but I forgot, that was what you wanted last time, wasn’t it? Malfoy’s laughter is not kind. The wolf was desperate. _I_ was desperate. I had my parents once to think of, when I was going mad with the wolf inside me. I might have had some friends too. It’s what I thought of, when I wasn’t human. They were the ones who made me turn back. But now…

Malfoy’s voice falters. His mind falters. Harry tries to reach out, but he grapples at a void. Empty air welcomes him.

I only have you, Malfoy says. He sounds defeated when he says it. Again, that resignation. I only have you to think of when I turn into that wolf. I have to ask myself, what makes me human, who would remember me as Draco Malfoy? You come into the wolf’s mind. I hold onto it. It’s what makes me transform back. Fuck. I would have preferred death over this.

He tests out some words he could say to comfort Malfoy. Malfoy inevitably hears most of them. I don’t mind. I mean, I could think of other worse situations. I would prefer you alive, does that make it better? Malfoy, it’s better to live than to—

Don’t give me that shit, Potter. Malfoy’s voice turns deadly. I can take that from other mind-numbing idiots, but not you. You don’t prefer the living over the dead, Potter. Their ghosts haunt you. What was the first thing you did when you went back in time? Malfoy’s teeth are white. You wanted to _save_ people. But did you want to live yourself? You should have heard some of the things your friends said to me—they think that I made you suicidal, that I’ve made it worse…problem is, you’ve always had that about you. The moment I came here, the wolf smelt it on you. Werewolves smell death, did you know? They know when the body doesn’t want to live, they wait for life to dwindle away…and then, they go for your neck.

I don’t want to die, he says. It feels like a lie and Malfoy feels it too.

You don’t want to live, Malfoy mocks instantly.

He stares helplessly at Malfoy. Malfoy stares back at him, impassive.

So there it is, Malfoy drawls. Our mind bond. Our _connection_. Aren’t you ecstatic, Potter, hearing my thoughts? They come so naturally for you, don’t they? It’s because the wolf takes to you. I’m dependent on you for my very survival, and I have nothing to offer in return, except…well, my own mind. Myself. It’s why you can hear my thoughts, or at least parts of it …we wouldn’t even have to hear our own voices. That’ll be something nice at least, not having to hear your horrid voice rasping at me. Malfoy looks thoughtful.

And is this…permanent?

Permanent? Well, no. It’ll break when my life is surrounded with loving people and I don’t need just one person for my survival. When my mind feels safe enough to fight back against the beast. When I have people I care for. Malfoy laughs. Fat chance of doing that, though, not in this lifetime, at least.

Survival instincts, then. This mind bond that we have.

Yes, that about sums it up. My human mind is trying to fight against the wolf. The wolf wants you. The wolf is always inside me—so hence, this conundrum.

Malfoy waves a mocking gesture.

It’ll be inconvenient, at least, when we’re with other people, he muses. We still need to speak to one another.

Malfoy snorts. Are we going to have company? What are you planning, Potter—a dinner party with all your doting fans?

He smiles. Looks away. Thinks. How strong is this mind bond, exactly?

I brought you to your timeline safe and sound. Malfoy shrugs. Even though you dropped dead again. You hear my thoughts, I sometimes see your dreams. Pretty strong, I should say.

And…could this work the other way around, you think?

Malfoy’s eyes snap to his face. Eyes narrow. The other way around? Use bigger words.

Do you think your mind bond—this connection—is secure enough for you to also follow me to…another timeline? As an example.

He finally takes Malfoy by surprise. Malfoy is wearing another face, other than his typical sneer and worn defeat, at least. Malfoy looks astonished, then horrified, then aghast. His mouth moves wordlessly. It seems that over the past few minutes, Malfoy has forgotten how to speak. As Malfoy’s mouth gaps, his thoughts tumble into Harry’s head.

You’re not thinking of going back, are you?

He shrugs. He imagines that his tone is cheerful when he replies. There are still some horcruxes that we need to deal with. You have one, I believe. Well. Your father does, at any rate. In your Manor?

He projects a worn, black diary and displays it in his mind.

Malfoy blinks. His lips move again soundlessly. At last, he finds his voice.

You’re a colossal pain in the ass, Malfoy thinks caustically.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Potter,” Malfoy says aloud.

His smiles. Good to know that you speak your mind, Malfoy, he thinks.

 

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the summary, I have said that there will be references of WW2, and this was considered a warning. This chapter was not written lightly, nor did I write this in a carefree matter. I would advise people not to read this if they have strong beliefs that historical events should not be mingled with the realm of fantasy. I will give my scant reasons for writing this chapters at the endnotes, but I doubt they will suffice. I can only hope that readers will be patient with me as the story unfolds.  
> To put it bluntly, there is reference to the Holocaust in these chapters, although I have tried to be vague as possible.

September 1939. Hitler invades Poland. Gellert Grindelwald signs a treaty pact with vampires in Romania. A Slytherin calls Tom Riddle a mudblood and laughs with his friends. His name is—is it so important? Perhaps not. In any case, Riddle will later kill him.

June 1940. Hitler invades France. Only Britain is left.

July 1940. The air raids begin. Only Britain is left to thwart Hitler. Kindertransports begin to arrive in massive numbers. Grindelwald is said to to roaming in the Far East, amassing armies, negotiating treaties. Riddle asks to stay in Hogwarts for the summer, is rejected. Matron Cole removes the orphanage to the countryside.

 June 1941. Hitler commences to invade the Soviet Union. He does not trust Stalin even when they had vouched friendship; moreover, he had promised his German people that they would find their living space in the eastern lands, enslaving the Slavic race and eradicating the Jews. Even as the German troops march onwards, Stalin does not truly believe that Germany will wage war on the Russian lands. He is not ready for war yet. The bombings in Britain continue. Someone calls Riddle a Jew. His dark hair, dark eyes. The rumors begin to come into Britain. What are happening to the Jews, in those eastern lands. All rumors. None taken seriously. But what a hoot! someone laughs. Hitler’s a genius, that’s what we should’ve done to those Bolshevik Jews ages ago! Riddle tries to shear off his hair. It grows back the next day.

February 1943. Stalingrad is Hitler’s downfall. Russia’s winters had once stopped Napoleon from conquering Europe; now it would stop Hitler from conquering the world. The Soviets begin to advance, with their meager supplies. Death follows in their wake. The war would end with the landscape of Russia scattered with dead bodies, never to be retrieved. Grindelwald flees to America and is captured. Someone calls Riddle a mudblood behind his back. Riddle only smiles, shines his prefect badge. Later, the same someone was seen amidst the Forbidden Forest, shivering naked, about to be eaten by a feral werewolf.

June 1943. The Italians are about to surrender. Tom opens the Chamber of Secrets. Grindelwald awaits trial but escapes.

August 1943. Everyone knows that Hitler is about to be defeated. It is now only a matter of time. Riddle goes to Little Hangleton. He commits the murder of his father, grandfather and grandmother. He frames those murders on his uncle. And then he heads to the Continent. To Albania, where it was said that Ravenclaw’s diadem was located. This would be the first of his many excursions.

The first time, it is not quite so simple to reach his destination. It is wartime, after all, and Tom Riddle is a boy who draws much attention, with his handsome dark hair and eyes.

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**_[Torn parchment, usage unknown, presumed to be Riddle’s handwriting, date unclear]_ **

I cannot forget the smell of burning flesh.

There can be no dignity in death. Only this have I learned from such a place.  

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They found him just as he was about to cross the borderlines from Italy, a young boy who was traveling alone in odd clothes. He had debated the idea of Apparating, but in the end he chose to go some distance by foot, as he was unfamiliar with the terrain. He had his wand, carefully tucked beneath the fold of his Muggle jacket, and this was the first thing those men shook out from him. They looked over at him with mistrustful eyes.

You’re not from around here, one said, taking note of his well-kept but poor state of clothes, his lack of luggage, his thin face.

No, he agreed, and stayed calm throughout, wondering if he should have them murdered. The one holding up his wand squinted and rolled it between a pair of flabby fingers. There was a grunt.

Odd looking thing you have, one said casually.

They were speaking in German, and he had a scant grasp of the language to know the basics. He repeated the words he knew slowly once more. Ich bin fremd hier. Ich spreche kein Deutsch. He said those words slowly, rolling off the harsh sounds off his tongue. The men looked at each other and laughed.

He wished he could have his wand back. Killing was frightfully easy to do, he learned. He had looked at his father’s face just a few weeks before—same eyes, the same hair, the same ravishing good looks that had him turning heads—as he uttered the impersonal words. _Avada Kedavra._ His father’s last expression: a look of horror, and then complete and total blankness as he fell. He had walked around the dead bodies of his grandparents and peered down at them. He did not feel anything. He had looked down at his wand and wondered if remorse would follow soon after. He had once felt it, after all, when that unknown Muggle died in the girl’s bathroom. He thought how unnecessary that girl’s death had been, and how that death had almost blown off his cover. He was not a fan of flashy attention and obvious power. He was not, Salazar forbid, _Grindelwald_.

But he did not know the land, and he did not know these people who donned military uniforms and were disinterested in his belongings (or lackof). They laughed at his wand, but he did not think it was a malicious laugh. They looked over at his strange clothes, his face, and their eyes lingered on his hair and eyes. He felt self-conscious and his smile slipped. A flash of irritation surged through. Mudbloods, he thought, spitefully, and thought of conjuring a wandless spell.

One of them took his arms. It was not rough, but there was a steely glint in his eyes.

Komm mit uns, the man said. He switched to a drawling tone. Parli italiano?

He shook his head.

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**_[Torn parchment, usage unknown, presumed to be Riddle’s handwriting, date unclear]_ **

There was the stench of human excrement everywhere. The children would not stop crying and mothers would not stop screaming. Huddled together, craning their necks to see beyond the cracks of the boarded windows. We did not stop for food or water. I did not leave that cramped space, even as I thought the noise and smell unbearable. There had been rumors of this sort—Billy Stubbs had kindly thought to enlighten me on such events just before he enlisted. But merely rumors. Now that I was confronted with the absurd reality of such a place, I did not know what to think. Curiosity: that was the only thing that made me stay. It had nearly done me away.

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.

The first time Harry commits murder—murder, that is, having nothing to do with Dark Lords and everything to do with intent and the spell of _Avada Kedavra_ —is for an inexplicable reason.

He finds himself in a bleak landscape. The first thing he notices about this place is the smell; the unbearable stench of something sweet and sickening. He looks up and sees smoke rising out from a chimney. He squints his eyes. His ears blare as the sirens ring across a vast courtyard. He looks about and see—people, he thinks, confused and disoriented, a little doubtful. He sees their sluggish movements and the overbearing clothes that are ragged and dirty. Their faces are parched and thin as they walk about in a disjointed order. People, he thinks and doubts, for they are too wispy and ghostlike to make him question whether they were alive. He shivers a little and looks down.

A dream should not feel this real, he thinks sourly, pinching a small bit of coarse fabric between his fingers. He is wearing threadbare rags.

What are _you_ doing here.

He looks up at the familiar voice. At first he does not believe what he sees, because the person standing in front of him surely cannot be—

But he is. Harry did not recognize the boy at first due to the shorn hair. He registers in the emaciated body, the gaunt and sickly skin, the hollowed cheeks. He sees the reddish glint in the eyes and cannot believe what he is seeing.

Riddle, he says. His voice rasps. He tries to clear his throat and finds that it is dry. He does not bother to repeat his words.

Riddle stares at him, his eyes blinking rapidly. You can’t be here, Riddle says, half to himself, his glare intensifying. You’re…but no, I’m in delirium…

There is a sudden bang, and Riddle jumps, his eyes wild. His head swerve, but he is the only person who watches. Harry follows his gaze. A man in uniform holds a gun. Another man lies at his feet, unmoving. He does not know what to think of that sudden death. He wants to ask, but Riddle is quicker.

Disillusion us, Riddle says, his eyes staring at the dead man. Riddle’s voice is a low croak. The uniform man hears them speak and looks at them. Eyes impassioned and very blue. Riddle repeats himself more urgently. Disillusion us, now!

He pats himself down roughly, looking about. Nothing is visible on the bare ground. He says desperately, I don’t have my wand.

Riddle turns to look at him. His look turns violent, almost savage. You don’t have your wand? he hisses. Where the fuck is your wand?

The man walks towards them. Riddle does not look at the man any longer but is seething at _him_ instead, in a barely controlled rage.

Why the fuck would you come about now, Riddle shouts, his words cracking, if you don’t have your fucking wand! What the fuck good are you if you’re dressed just as I am, if you look just as I do?

He stares at Riddle, and for the first time since seeing this young boy, is at a loss for words. He wants to snap back where was Riddle’s favored wand. He wants to mock if Riddle couldn’t conjure his own magic with wandless flair. He wants to demand where the fuck they were. He wonders vaguely about how Lord Voldemort had once been a raging teenager free with his usage for profanities when the world didn’t suit to his needs. That would explain his constant need to cast the Unforgivables, he thinks.

Riddle does not move from his spot. The man is coming nearer, his black boots unhesitant. Life seems to drain out of the boy, his face deathly pale. Riddle looks afraid. It is one of the reasons why Harry can only stare at him, gaping. A foreign look. When had he seen the boy so open and vulnerable?

The man now stands in front of them, speaking something in a harsh, jolting accent. Riddle opens his mouth and his voice is monotone, his eyes reverting back to its normal dark color. A change comes over Riddle, the way anger is replaced with something dead and empty. The man does not wait to hear the end of Riddle’s words; the man swings one of his foot, and kicks. Riddle stumbles but does not fall, his posture rigid. Dark eyes stare through him, beyond him.

The man turns to him and barks out something he does not understand. He does not bother to answer and looks at Riddle’s unwavering body, that pale face frozen in place. The man is about to raise his gun. He sees it from the corner of his eyes as he looks at Riddle and does not understand what he sees.

Instinctively, he stretches his hand out towards Riddle. Coldness washes over him; absolute coldness that seeps into his bones and through his blood. He has a foreboding feeling that he would never experience warmth again, would never know life as he had known it. Somewhere distant, he hears a chuckle, muffled by the continuous blazing of the sirens. The man shouts something now. He cocks the gun. There should be a shot ringing across the air. There should be his body falling to the ground.

His fingers brush against Riddle’s cheek and touches hard bone, roughened cheeks. There is no trace of Riddle’s handsome face any longer in the face that he sees. There is death in the boy, and Death inside him coos softly at the achingly familiar sensation of demise.

He closes his eyes.

.

.

.

**_[Torn parchment, usage unknown, presumed to be Riddle’s handwriting, date unclear]_ **

Someone would find me, my _friends_ would see that I did not return and seek to ask of my whereabouts, the professors would fret over my absence. Such thoughts held no place in that bleak wasteland I ignorantly landed myself into. I lost the count of days after the first week—there was no point in keeping track of anything so tedious. And yet I persisted, without my wand and somehow, without my magic. Magic failed me in that place. Like everything else magic fell apart for me and I could not perform the simplest of spells. I walked around seeing death everywhere. The dead shrieked in their last dying hours. The dead burned, fire ravaging the place day and night. Was such a death preferable? Even at that time, I did not wish for it upon myself. No; if anything, death revolted me more than ever where death was considered merciful. But I did not wish such mercy upon me. I would rather be tortured alive than to be thrust upon a heap of bodies, to be considered insignificant amongst so many others. To think, how I was proud of my accomplishments of my recent murders. My murders had been nothing to such efficient extermination that I continuously saw.

.

.

.

You killed your father, is the first thing he says to the boy.

Dumbfounded, he had brushed against Riddle’s cheek, captivated by Riddle’s fear. He had seen death in the boy’s eyes and how he valiantly wished to avert it. He thought a voice whispered to him: not yet, not yet. A low, chuckling voice. He felt magic, older magic than he felt in the walls of Hogwarts, older still than the wand that sometimes lured him to power in his dreams. He had never told anyone that the Elder Wand sometimes beckoned him to its magic in his dreams. Another one of his eccentric quirks, he had supposed. He had closed his eyes and the old magic took them away. He felt the cold wind taking the breath out of him, and they were soon gone, beyond death but not from the horrible stench.

He now looks at Riddle, older and taller than he had seen him last in the London Blitz, a closer age to the Riddle who continuously haunted his mindscape.

Riddle looks around them and does not answer him.

They are in a small and dark room. How they had ended up there, away from the blue-eyed guard, how _he_ had brought them there, is something he cannot dwell on at this time. Outside there is the shout of that unfamiliar language. There is sound of gunfire. And then, the faint sound of music. He breathes out white puffs of air.

He repeats his words. Riddle sneers with a vicious glare. Even with the lack of light, he can make out how Riddle’s eyes hold a glint of red.

 _Yes_ , I murdered my father. I’m not even going to ask how you know about such useless things. We have other concerns here. Riddle pauses as his face flushes. He stifles a cough and brings a hand to his mouth. He sounds ill.

Such as?

I have questions for you, Riddle spits, I had questions ever since I saw you when I was a child, but now is not the time to ask them. I’m prudent like that, even if you don’t think it. You seem to know quite a lot about my life story—so tell me, what happens from here? How do we get out? You did come to take me out, didn’t you? Riddle’s voice rises. Tell me you know how to get out of here!

He stares, not knowing what to say. Riddle continues to make hacking sounds and doubles over. He is shivering.

I don’t know, he says dumbly. I don’t even know where we are right now.

Liar, Riddle says, angry eyes trained on him, I always know when you’re lying. Riddle, smart boy that he is, continues his spiteful words. You’re a time traveler.

He blinks. Closes his eyes and opens them. Riddle looks at him, full of contempt and—dare he say it? —scornful amusement.

Didn’t you think I’d find out? Riddle drawls. He does a poor imitation of what once would have been a frightful leer. You knew who I was the moment you met me, knew what I was to become. What else would I have concluded? Or did you think me lacking in my intellect?

I don’t know anything, he tries again feebly, but Riddle only laughs at him.

That’s what all time-travelers say. But you never quite bothered to hide how much you knew about it—sometimes it was as if you enjoyed it, this superiority over me. It wasn’t so hard to figure out after that. You know about me, what my future is going to hold. So tell me this, if you can't say anything else: do I live?

Riddle is a bundle of bones and parched skin, his face a ghost. He looks barely alive, breathing out in rapid strokes of air, and yet he still looks at Harry with brazen amusement, evident derision, and anger. He is reminded of Lord Voldemort, resurrecting from a graveyard. Flesh of his servant, bone of his father, blood of his enemy…

You live, he says dumbly, and shakes his head. You live, but what is this place? Why are you here?

I thought you knew, Riddle says, a touch of mockery in his tone. You seem to know everything about me, it seems.

I know you killed your father and his parents—and framed your uncle for it, he immediately counters sharply. He wishes he had his wand to brandish it about. I know you know about Horcruxes. Did you—have you already made them?

For Riddle’s eyes hold something in them not quite human, a sense of wild, frenzy madness. Horcruxes take away what is human in us, Dumbledore had once told him. Riddle looks inhuman now, with this chattering teeth and furious eyes, even as Riddle continues to smirk at him, full of empty rage and bravado.

I have split my soul, yes, Riddle says, but I have not yet found the adequate vessel to place them.

Riddle says it so casually and gleefully, proudly boasting of his deed that wants to make Harry wretch. I had saved that boy from this, he thinks, looking in those fervent eyes with dark hopelessness. I had continued to watch the boy thinking that he won’t, that somehow it would be different. I had thought to dissuade him by saving him. But not even Dumbledore could have stopped Voldemort. How could I have?

Does it wreck you so? Riddle says, laughing. His face is demented. His eyes are very bright and unfocused. You seem very worried about my state of affairs, how I will turn out to be. Don’t worry your head over it, it’s not as if you’ve been around to see me actually grow—

He thinks Riddle is hallucinating. He thinks Riddle is severely malnourished and worries for his sanity. Then he jerks back to see Riddle’s laughing, delirious face and asks, dumbfounded, did you want me to watch you?

Maybe, Riddle says. His voice is sickeningly coy. He wonders where Riddle picked up such things. Didn’t I tell you once, long ago? You come to me in my dreams. Some days you kill me, and some other days I kill you. It becomes very drab after awhile, but then later we kiss and make up.

Riddle laughs again and he flinches. Riddle’s laugh is not a pleasant one.

These days I do not dream at all, Riddle continues. You’ve seen this place. You’re wearing those hideous rags. How could you not know? We are at war and I’m about to die.

You won’t die, he tries to repeat, but this time Riddle snarls at him and some of Riddle’s spit lands on his cheek.

Liar! You’ve always lied to me, from the very first time we’ve met, you come about in sudden bursts when I have no need for you and just scamper away whenever you please—do you think my life is a joke to you, something you can keep tabs on and see how great I shall become?

With each word Riddle’s voice is in a high state of frenzy, soon he is shouting. A younger Riddle overlaps, a boy who did not want to be saved because he was curious whether he would have died. Harry had saved that boy and Riddle had shouted at him for it. He wonders if this time it would be any different.

It is, he thinks to himself tiredly, he is already a murderer now and he is a boy who had opened his Chamber of Secrets. Within a year he will have created his first Horcrux.

How did you end up here? he asks flatly. Riddle’s breath wheezes in the stilted silence.

I was trying to get to Albania, Riddle answers tersely. Not that it’s any of your business. I thought that Italy had already surrendered.

Surrendered? He must have looked confused. Riddle narrows his eyes.

You are very bad at trying to hide your secrets, Riddle mutters. We are at war right now, although things are not going well for Hitler. Perhaps that is why there is such a hurry to get rid of everything. Riddle’s voice is contemplative. There are more trains arriving everyday. Some days, they don’t even bother with the sorting and send them all to one side. 

He looks at Riddle blankly. Riddle meets his eyes, raising a thin eyebrow.

Oh, don’t tell me, Riddle finally says, disgusted. You truly don’t know. Time-travelling won’t save you from your ignorance.

.

.

.

**_[Torn parchment, presumed to be a letter (receiver unknown), presumed to be Riddle’s handwriting, date unclear]_ **

—with you, everything was a dream, and every time you came to me I thought about how your eyes were alit with vengeance against me. I thought at first you were Death in human form, and I thought about all the things that I failed to achieve as I lay dying…for you came only in my weakest moments and I had nothing to show you, not my abilities with magic, not my power, not my charm. You only knew me as a scrawny kid in an orphanage and in the middle or an air raid, and you found me in that hell when I thought I would truly die. Never was I more disgusted to see you. Looking at you, I knew that you came for my life and I wanted to fight against that, for I feared for the dying men around me. But I did not expect you to save me.

It had been you who saved me, time and time again and I did not understand that, and for this alone I despised you. I could not get rid of you inside my head.

.

.

.

A sudden movement from the doorframe startles them. Riddle looks towards the door with widened eyes, and he, Harry, pats down his clothes roughly, desperate to find his wand.

Where is _your_ wand? He finally asks Riddle, exasperated. Or never mind that, aren’t you a master at wandless spells?

Magic does not work for me here, Riddle says, his lips barely moving. He looks terrified, a strange look on the boy, a constant expression that he wears in this place. Perhaps it has to do with the land, or perhaps I am too weak to cast anything…

The door jerks open, and light comes into the dark shed. He looks around and sees rusted equipment strewn about them. He turns his head again and there stands a guard in uniform, with the same black boots and stiff collar. Was it the same man? He cannot tell. They have the same blue eyes that glint with indifferent cruelty, it seems.

The man barks out something. Riddle says something evenly. The man laughs. Riddle does not. The man sneers and walks forward, hand already raised. Riddle does not defend. The man shouts something repeatedly, Judensau, Judensau, and Riddle does not retort back. Riddle is back to the limp body again. He wants to shake Riddle. Why did you kill your father? he wants to demand. Why are you here? He is almost on the verge of hysteria. I cannot save you now a second time, don’t you see, not when you’re on the verge of becoming a monster! He wants to beseech this trembling, thin boy on the cusp of death, accepting death as Voldemort had never done. He does not even know if he can save the boy. They do not have their wands. The guard strikes a blow towards Riddle first and he lets out a small cry of disbelief. Riddle falls gracelessly against the dirt floor. The guard turns towards him and sees his rags, his hair, his eyes. The guard sneers and strikes a blow. His mind blurs. He had not known how weak his body was until he falls down too, without resistance. The guard kicks his stomach again and again, and he is dazed with the pain and the pounding inside his head. I am going to die, he thinks blindly, in this unknown place.

The guard tires of kicking him and shouts something. Get up, he thinks. He stands, dazed. Riddle fails to do the same. The guard shouts the same word and kicks Riddle with renewed rigor. There is disgust and pleasure in the man’s face. Riddle only curls up tighter. He still smells the sweet, foreboding odor everywhere around him. He finally recognizes the smell. He had once smelt it when the pyres were lit to honor the dead. He had watched the dead bodies burn into the air at his last night at Hogwarts. He had proposed to Ginny and she had looked so sad for him. Don’t cry for me, Ginny, he had wanted to say. But at that time, he was too self-absorbed and desperate for anyone to save him. He had loved her. He thought that his love could have saved him. Around them, the dead rose up in ashes.

The smell of burning flesh, he thinks, sick to his wounded stomach. Riddle makes a dying sound. He stands immobile as the guard kicks Riddle to his death. He will watch Riddle die, watch the life fade out of those demented eyes.

Will you let him die? a voice asks inside him. Time and time again, opportunity presents itself to you, and you cannot kill him when he is but a child, you cannot help but save him from his foolish antics. Was that not your most desired wish—to kill and avenge? Or do you now believe such a murderer capable of redemption? Why, Harry Potter, and something inside him laughs, hysterical and merry, a voice not his own. Do you think you can salvage Tom Riddle and make him seek the error of his ways? Is that why you have tried to beg me for a second chance, for all these years? A fool’s quest you are seeking…

The voice fades away. He realizes that he does not need his wand to kill. Killing is a form of old magic, the kind that Riddle had sought, his mentors had warned him about. It needs only intent of the most barbaric certainty. This certainly makes him cold. But he does not hesitate, not for this. Later he will have time to wonder why.

There is a flash of green light when he incants those words. The man does not even have time to turn his head as he falls to the ground like a marionette plucked off its strings. The man thuds to the ground. He does not stir. Harry stands, swaying and thinking numbly, it is so easy to kill, I wonder why I could not have done it when it could have been of more use to me. I could have been a solider. I could have been anything else but a boy who had to constantly seek death.

Riddle pants against the dirt ground and makes a sound of agony. He crouches down and touches Riddle’s stomach. He only feels bones over the thin fabric. Riddle moans.

Live, he thinks grimly, touching Riddle’s hollow stomach and willing magic to flow from his fingertips. Live, he thinks angrily, hating himself and his stupid savior complex and most of all, Tom fucking Marvolo Riddle, who seems to wish death despite his strong fear for it. Live, he thinks, determined, and his magic obeys him, and Riddle’s pants grow less labored, and he finally stops twitching. His eyelids flutter.

He grabs a thin wrist and tries to shake Riddle awake. It is too cold to sleep, he says, voice breaking. Come on, I can take us away. Riddle does not answer. He tries again. Riddle, we have to get out before anyone else comes. If you value your life, for fuck’s sake, open your eyes!

Riddle obeys slowly, his eyes slowly blinking. There is a curious glassy look to them.

You have killed him, Riddle murmurs. Hypocrite.

I did it to save you, he snarls. Anger is good. Anger will help him forget his discomfort at saving this murderer.

Riddle does not answer to him. Instead he says faintly, I had already offered a life debt that I regret. There is nothing else I can give. I thought you had come to see me die.

You won’t die here, he says.

Riddle laughs a broken laugh. Tiredness laces his words. My guardian angel, Riddle says, and when he tries to pull Riddle upright, he notices the tattooed number on his wrist. A shiver runs through him.

.

.

.

They find themselves in King’s Cross. Riddle looks dreadfully out of sorts, parched and emaciated on the verge of death. People steal glances at their faces and clothes, looking very much aghast. He tiredly casts a Disillusionment Charm over them.

You are very proficient at wandless magic, Riddle observes with a flat voice. You could have used those talents earlier.

I was in shock, he replies with the same flat voice. I saved you though, doesn’t that count?

Yes, Riddle says quietly. He holds none of the anger that Harry is so used to seeing on the other boy. I would have died there. I was getting too weak.

Why were you there in the first place? he asks now, summoning up the anger that Riddle is now absurdly incapable of. What madness drove you?

Curiosity, Riddle says. And then later—I could not have gotten away even if I wanted to. My magic failed me. I could not escape. Riddle lets out a choked laugh. I could have gone out by dying. But I did not want to die. Isn’t that strange? There was no worse fate than living in that place. And still—I wanted that fate.

He does not know what to reply to that.

So you are not to be my murderer, Riddle muses.

No, he lies, shaking his head. Riddle does not try to probe his mind, so he finds it safe to meet Riddle’s eyes.

Riddle gives him a wan smile. It is a strange look upon a face he had so often seen constantly jarred with hatred. Perhaps you shall be my savior then, Riddle says mockingly, voice still weak. It seems that you fend me off from death’s clutches and I live a little more.

He refuses to reply to that, choosing instead to touch those thin cheeks again. It is cold to touch. Riddle watches his face, devoid of emotion, waiting for a reply that would never come.

.

.

.

“Wh—what are you doing?”

He wakes Malfoy in a rush of panic, and in the darkness he makes out the hazy contours of Malfoy’s body, clutching his sheets. He had woken up and shouted in the darkness. Inside his mind, he was still in the dark shed and trying to save Riddle. He had rushed out of his room and into Malfoy’s bedroom across the hallway, and woken up Malfoy with his urgent shaking.

Malfoy sits up in bed and repeats the question with more force. “What is it? Are we being attacked?”

He tries to form words in his mouth. The house is completely still and silent. He does not know want to say and can only breath heavily. Tell me Malfoy, have you ever smelt burning flesh? Did you ever watch people straggle to their deaths? Did you hear music and think how death was near, so very near, that there was nothing you could do but to walk towards it? I saved Tom Riddle again; I saved him once when he was still innocent, but now I have no excuse. I have saved a murderer and the reason for all our life’s torments, and I saved him because I could not bear to see him so weak. I pitied him, and he had just murdered his father. He will go on to make his first Horcrux. He would not have hesitated to kill me, were he in my place. Why did I save him?

Malfoy puts a hand on his chest. Malfoy’s hand is warm, and heat seeps through his flimsy nightshirt. He heaves a small breath. He cannot forget the eternal coldness that grasped at him.

“What were you dreaming about?” Malfoy says, in a gentler voice. He stares at the darkness and shakes his head. He looks down at Malfoy’s pale hand. He thinks _Lumos_ , and the room lights up feebly. The magic comes to him naturally.

Malfoy watches him warily. He feels like a wild animal, searching blindly for comfort. If he cannot find that, then he would not hesitate to lash out and kill out of fear. His hands shake badly.

“There was music in my head,” he finally says, trying to form words he mind would not allow. He looks at Malfoy and wants him to understand. “It was terrible, the music wouldn’t stop in my head—” and soon he was humming the song loudly, as if he had heard it all his life, as if the music possessed him completely. Malfoy sits up on the bed, bewildered, and listens to his tune as he rushes through his humming, and after when it is all over, he laughs with a controlled wildness.

“I don’t know what it is, it’s macabre, so loud inside my head…do you know it? Have you heard of it?”

Malfoy carefully arranges his sheets and touches him again. He accepts the warmth Malfoy gives to him easily. He looks down and thinks how warm Malfoy’s skin is, how pale and yet still so alive—

and he sees the ugly mark like a tattoo on the pale forearm.

He recoils back, violently. Malfoy looks down to see what upset him, and Malfoy’s face morphs from wary concern into something ugly and painful. Malfoy had not expected him, of all people, to be repulsed by the Mark. He does not have it in him to reassure the other boy of his sudden reaction, does not find the words to insist that it really has nothing to do with the stupid Mark at all. Malfoy is surprised that he would recoil. He is surprised that the skull would affect him so. No, he is lying. He is not surprised at all, remembering Riddle and his bony wrist and those black numbers inscribed in his skin.

The Mark had not faded all these years. He wonders if Tom Riddle’s mark had faded when he had first died, that night in Godric’s Hollow.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Even as I am writing this, I know that I will never be able to give a satisfactory answer to those who are angry. They could quote to me Elie Wiesel and Primo Levi, two survivors who treated the Holocaust as it was meant to be treated (that is, with the appropriate anger and sorrow and moral warnings to the future generation) and I could rally back with quotes from Arnold Lustig and Tadeusz Borowski, who treated the same event with more profanity and sordid black humor. I did not write this for my own casual amusement. I do not think Harry would have known much about Muggle history, and I used this to my advantage.  
> 2\. As an avid student of history and a morbid interest in the Holocaust, I could not help noticing how Voldemort's policies were akin to the Nazis, and I am hardly the first. The propaganda, the overtake of the Ministry, the branded Marks, the weeding out of blood--not to mention Voldemort's usage of spies and the Snatchers, which I thought was a combination of the KGB in the Soviet Era and the Gestapo both. I could not also help wonder Riddle's childhood during wartime, when Hitler waged his war on London with his infamous air raids. Where had Riddle learned such politics? It was said that he went to Albania, although when, we really don't know. Riddle is not a boy with fair hair and blue eyes. He has dark features, which was noticeable during that time, especially if he was crossing the Continent to reach Albania.  
> And I was frustrated with JK Rowling's hints at Riddle and comparison to Hitler and the absolute evil Voldemort wielded. I'm not saying he wasn't evil, but war is not won with just the figurehead who collapsed, just as war is not started with the figurehead demanding war. And of course this is a children's book, but for a children's book it has continually haunted and irritated me throughout the years: the sudden end of war, the happy ending that followed. As most of the readers were, I'm assuming. Even after Hitler, some Nazis managed to get away, most of the lower ranks were reinstated.  
> 3\. And Voldemort is a curious case by far. He feared more for death than even immense pain. He cared for immortality more than his causes. He tried to kill a baby because he feared for his life. He is egoistical to an extreme, and his fear of death is peculiar. Why could he not accept death like other sane people? I had asked myself this over the years, and sometimes I was a little disappointed in Rowling for not creating a more Dostoevskian character out of Voldemort. He would have fitted the bill, with his nihilism and psychopathic tendencies.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to first thank everyone who had taken time to leave thoughtful comments on the last chapter--this is for you. The same warnings stand as with the previous chapter, and I would get back to the replies and comments as soon as I am able to sort out my RL tidbits. I would just like everyone to know that I would have never written this chapter without the wonderful reviews I had received. Thank you so much.  
> I would also like to tell everyone beforehand that I had said in my description this is a *partial* time travel fic. Meaning that Harry would not be going throughout all those Hogwarts years (that would be very time-consuming for both me and the readers...). Just a heads up: after Harry's 'first year' ends, everything is going to go downhill.

Malfoy avoids him all the next day, even though he had tried to explain in stuttering breaths about how it was not about the Mark at all, it was not about Malfoy (“Not everything is about your Death Eater crisis,” he had said, perhaps in a snappish way after his nightmare, and Malfoy had glowered at him in response), and eventually he stops trying to talk to the other boy. Verbally, that is.

Inside his mind, he throws images of thin and barely human bodies at Malfoy, again and again, and the barbed wires, the flashing lights and he debates how to transfer music through his thoughts (da-de-dam? Da-de-dil-dam? he wonders, and soon gives up, swishing his hands like a conductor). He summons the image of the guard with his cold blue eyes. He visualizes everything that he possibly can, with the exception of Riddle. He blurs out Riddle in his memories and sends along the rest. The bodies and bones and hollowed eyes. Malfoy is scathing with his responses even with his verbal silence.

STOP SENDING ME IMAGES OF INFERI, POTTER, Malfoy shouts through their mind bond. The house is deathly still. He debates what they had been, those people who had straggled along with death trailing in their shadows. Riddle was not an Inferius. He was human, but barely just. And he, Harry, had saved him. A boy who had committed patricide, who will go onto murder his own parents when Harry is but a baby. He hums the music under his breath. The silence echoes around him and he looks around, lost. The dark room reminds him of Riddle in the shed. My guardian angel, Riddle had called him. There was a softness in the boy’s eyes that had not been there before.

Lies, he tells himself sternly. Riddle is a manipulative little bastard and he is set on making a fucking Horcrux. You saved him by mistake. It’s that stupid savior complex that Hermione is always chiding to you about.

He does not come out of his room until dinner. He broods. He wears his sweater and coat, and takes care to cover up his feet with thick, wooly socks. He feels as if he would never be warm again. He touches his wrist and feels the bones. He sees pale skin; not a mark, not a single number upon his skin. Clean and untouched. He rubs his fingers and feels for his pulse. He remembers Riddle’s yellow skin. Numbers on his wrist. What had they meant?

When he steps into the dining room, Malfoy is fiddling with his fork and looking aggravated and tired. The first thing that Malfoy says to him does not make sense.

“It’s Wagner,” Malfoy nearly snaps at him. He blinks.

“Sorry?”

“The music you’ve been driving me insane about, Potter. It’s a muggle man, Richard Wagner. Although how you expected me to know such crap is beyond me, but there we have it.”

“Ah.” He pauses. Malfoy thrusts down his fork and gives up the pretense of eating.

“You should stop giving me nightmarish ghouls to keep me up late at night—or better yet, don’t come barging into my room. Maybe then I’ll have a good night’s sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” he says dutifully, and because he doesn’t want Malfoy to storm out on him again, he adds, “It wasn’t about the Mark.”

“You’ve told me already,” Malfoy sneers, not easily pacified. “Your exact words, Potter, if you need any reminding, were ‘not everything is about your Death Eater crisis’—”

“I just woke up from a nightmare,” he interrupts, overriding Malfoy’s voice. He is very good at screeching at other people these days. “And those bodies I saw—they all had a tattooed number on their wrist, in the exact same place where you had your Mark, and I thought—”

He stops, feeling sick. He rubs at the base of his throat and closes his eyes. He sees the bodies again; thinks he may smell them.

“I don’t know what I thought,” he says tiredly, “But it had nothing to do with what you were, Malfoy. Merlin. You should know me better than that.”

When he opens his eyes, Malfoy is staring at him. It unnerves him, how Malfoy’s eyes are obscure and penetrating at the same time.

“Why do you have the strangest dreams?” Malfoy says. At least the anger is gone for the moment. “You have the younger Dark Lord lurking about in your mindscape, did you know that? He tried to kill me once.”

“Yeah,” he echoes, feeling faint. He rubs his skin harder. He looks away from those eyes and wishes that Malfoy would look away. “He’s not fond of anyone, really.”

“Oh, no,” Malfoy says, lips curling, “He’s just very obsessed over you. That’s why he’s holing himself up in your mind, isn’t he? That and—” Malfoy pauses. Clever Draco Malfoy, he thinks wryly, waiting for Malfoy to pick up the pieces and say what was on his mind. Waits for Malfoy to say: it’s also because you were once the Dark Lord’s soul vessel, isn’t that right? You were once a Horcrux. You have a fucking bond with the Dark Lord that hasn’t quite gone away, now what would that make you?

But Malfoy does not talk about the Dark Lord and his horcruxes. He does not mention their locket incident, nor does he mention how the Dark Lord had looked under Quirrell’s turban. They do not talk of the year that had not happened, should not have been rewritten.

Malfoy only thins his lips and asks a carefully worded question.

“The Dark Lord’s souls…they’ve all been destroyed in the last war?”

“So we’ve thought.” He does a little shrug. “That’s how we got rid of his corporal body in the end.”

“You died.”

“I—yes.”

“You had nightmares about them. I would know—I always had to wake you up, otherwise you’d have brought this entire dump down with your screams.” Malfoy narrows his eyes. “You had dreams about your death.”

“I had dreams about him.” He looks down at his hands and flexes them.

“Him?”

“Death.” He whispers out the words, wonder if Malfoy would think him mad. “Sometimes Voldemort.”

To his credit, Malfoy does not laugh. He only narrows his eyes and watches. His words are slow to come out.

“Potter, there was a reason why you suddenly appeared in my memories as a Slytherin. You went back in time.” Malfoy pauses. “There was no reason why you would have gone back—unless something wasn’t resolved.”

“I ended the war ten years ago, Malfoy.” If his voice is sharper than he intends, Malfoy does not comment on it. “I just wanted a quicker way to end it all. I knew about the horcruxes, I knew about how he would come back—”

“Now you’re purposefully being oblivious,” Malfoy says, matching his sharp tone, “Potter, you might have killed off all the Dark Lord’s souls, but…” And Malfoy stops. He waits for Malfoy to speak the words. Again, Malfoy disappoints him.

Malfoy only says flatly, “And now you’re thinking of going back.”

He nods. Malfoy snorts.

“How does that even work? Do you _will_ it, Potter? You just want to head back off and then—what? You’re a scrawny little kid again, wielding magic that you’re not even supposed to know of?”

“I see things in my dreams,” he says tiredly, wondering if it was safe to mention Death and the Hallows and the entire fiasco with Voldemort in general. “Or maybe I wait. It’s just intuition. I know that things haven’t been resolved…so I have the feeling I’ll be going back soon.”

“And you’ll drop dead again,” Malfoy says sharply. “While you’re over there—the person that you’re supposed to be here—he no longer exists, Potter. Have you thought of that?”

“I have,” he says, “And I don’t really see a way out of it.”

Malfoy clicks his tongue impatiently. With his every word, Malfoy looks angry. His pale grey eyes harden when he is angry, and Harry notices how Malfoy thins his lips. His cheeks flush. Fingers curl. But Malfoy does not scream at him.

Malfoy says, “I don’t fancy going back to Azkaban again because of your inane plans.”

He gives out a little cough. “Maybe you could tell them,” he says, voice slow to come out, “About our bond. You could tell the Aurors—”

“And have them make me confess that I forced myself at you?” With each word, Malfoy’s voice grows stiff and cutting. “Don’t be daft, Potter. I would rather face your horrid friends a second time.”

He taps his fingers against the table. He feels agitated. He knows that Malfoy can feel his increasing irk and worry. Malfoy’s eyebrows raise and his face no longer looks so pinched.

“You want me to go back with you,” Malfoy says.

He gives out a small grunt of affirmation.

“How does that work?”

“Intuition,” he says, his own voice biting. He is not quite as good as holding himself still when he becomes irascible. “There was something tugging inside me even when I was back as a first year. You made me come back—” He glances at Malfoy, quickly looks away. “—and I heard your voice. I kept thinking that something wasn’t right. I saw you dragged to Azkaban.”

“And I’ll be carted off to that wretched place again,” Malfoy says, “If you decide to go back.”

“No.” His voice is firm. He wants Malfoy to understand. “ _We’ll_ be going back.”

“We? And if I don’t want to?”

“Don’t you want to save the world, Malfoy?” He gives out a forced laugh, knowing how those words sound. He is not much of a preacher nor a visionary. He does not know how to persuade people to die for lost causes and fight for a better world. He had almost lost Snape that way. “Or at the very least, stop your younger self from making stupid decisions? We can stop him this time, you know. You saw the locket. You saw how he looked.”

“Or we could stay.”

“Or we could stay,” Harry agrees, “And we could wait for him to come to us.”

Malfoy does not give a reply.

.

.

.

When he opens his eyes and looks down at his hand, he notices how they are sickly and yellow. His stomach is protruding, and he is so very hungry. Hunger gnaws at him, and it hurts to breathe; he takes a sharp intake of air and groans. He smells a fetid smell. It is cold. It is dark.

Around him, there are bodies of men who trudge alongside him, their eyes vacant and empty. They file themselves in a single line and march in a rigid and awkward gait, as if their feet hurt them. He walks and feels his feet pinch. He flexes his hands and sees how bony his wrists are, how the blue ink tattooed across his skin has not settled in yet.

How long has it been? he wonders dully.

Somewhere the drums roll and music plays. With the marching band the men measure their steps and take care to raise their heads higher. What a sentimental tune, what a grand crescendo. The music is lost to deaf ears. The music is only a beat. A Kapo might spot their fatigue from a mile away. Once a man shows signs of weariness in this place, there is only one way out, and that is not freedom. With their waxen faces they march the march of the dead.

A sharp finger jabs him. It is his partner for work and the man’s eyes are flat.

Schneller! A deep voice shouts. Schneller, schneller!

The wooden clogs march onwards. The band beats the drum. The bodies stiffen, their gaits forced. Walk onwards.

This is a dream, he repeats in his mind, dully. This voice is not his. This voice is his. He does not know any longer.

.

.

.

He opens his eyes and sees Tom Riddle with his yellow face and gaunt body, his dead eyes.

He runs up to the boy and tries to grab him, but he cannot; he can only watch, Tom Riddle’s stiff posture and his emaciated limbs and his dry lips. Around him, there are only walking corpses matching Riddle’s same gait. He smells the scent of dead bodies and the sky is dark with ash. The smoke is too big to be only a fire. A pyre. He had seen the likes at the final battle. He saves his breath and hurries next to Riddle’s side. Riddle walks forth, his eyes blank. Is it Riddle? His head is shaved and bones protrude at sharp angles. Skin so yellow and face so gaunt. But it is he, because Riddle still has his taint of his patricide—his eyes are crimson.

Harry walks next to his murderer, ghost-like and floating. This is a dream, he repeats to himself. He sees the bodies and hears the drumrolls and repeats, almost frantically, this is a dream. He looks back at Riddle and asks him, but how did you end up here? He asks again, how long, how fucking long has it been?

To both questions, he does not receive an answer.

Does he feel horror towards Tom Riddle? Does he feel horror for the man who will become Voldemort? Tom Riddle, who tested the boundaries of darkness, who had not hesitated to kill him, who was incapable of mercy or love—does he remember that man? The Tom Riddle he sees before him is a child that he had saved. A stupid, reckless child who thought that nothing could touch him. What had Riddle called him? _My guardian angel._ He wants to retch.

.

.

.

He wakes up in his cold bedroom, and he feels death, ever-present. He shivers and shakes; but what was this empty feeling, this gaping, aching chill? In the darkness he is deprived of sunshine and warmth. Does he know what such things were? He gives out a thin, strangled moan. He wishes to beckon Death. You have taken so much from me, he thinks wearily, blindly, what more could you possibly take more? Could you not take me too, then?

A hand shakes him. Warmth. Yes; so he has not forgotten how soft the living feels. What a surreal feeling. He grabs the hand and intertwines their fingers together. Warmth. He breathes deeply and thinks nothing of it.

There is a muttering sound, and there is light, and he can ask for nothing more. He blinks rapidly at the sudden glow that encases around him and sees Malfoy, standing awkwardly besides his bedside, Malfoy’s hand held captive by his persistent grip.

“If you’re done with your bout of melodrama—” Malfoy says, but he does not hear the words.

Malfoy is pale but is not death. He is thin but not gaunt, he is alive and walking. He does not reek of dead men. Malfoy brings him light and warmth, and how crucial and necessary they were to fend off the end!—and so he leans over and sees Malfoy, so different from the corpses that haunt him, those lives he had seen as they withered into dead men, the blue-eyed man who had become his first kill.

I killed for Tom Riddle, he imagines saying to Malfoy; their lips brushing, hands clasped. Pretending that Draco Malfoy can be his confessor, who could offer him consolation.

But why? Malfoy might say. Merlin save us, he might also say. Potter, you’re supposed to murder that boy, not prolong his vile existence.

What would he say to that? He would try to show the vision of Tom Riddle and Malfoy would not be impressed. The Dark Lord was dying; good riddance, that place could have finished him off. Where is that place? How he had ended up there? No matter—he could have died, Potter, and you prevented him from dying.

I had to, he would then beg. You should have seen that place, that place where the bodies stank of death and the eyes beckoned death and the voices whispered death—and then there was Tom Riddle, with his reddened eyes and barking voice, and I saved him because he could not die in such a place. Because I could not see him as Voldemort—did not hate him as I once did Voldemort. I pitied him. How could I have pitied such a monster?  

But he does not say such mad and irrevocable things. Can Malfoy hear his thoughts? Malfoy’s eyes stare at him, eerie and watchful. He does not pretend Malfoy is his confessor, that Malfoy will grant him the salvation he so sought.

Instead, he reaches up a hand and drags Malfoy down.

Malfoy’s mouth is hot. That is good; it will stave off the cold. Malfoy’s breath is filling. That is good; it will fend off his emptiness. Malfoy’s body is heavy. That is good; it will ward them against death.

Malfoy tries to speak something against their mouths, but Harry does not hear him. He kisses frantically until Malfoy stops trying to resist him, and Malfoy leans over, his mouth wet and damp. He opens his mouth, greedy and hungry. A starved man. A damned soul.

Malfoy traces his shoulders, and he feels Malfoy’s weight pressing upon him. He lies down easily, Malfoy on top of him, the soft glow of light encasing them both.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, but it is not his usual jeer, it is not even his normal voice. It is low and worried. Malfoy is worried. For what?

He tries to pull Malfoy down again. Malfoy resists. He makes a small, impatient sound. Malfoy looks at him in near disbelief.

“Have you gone mad, Potter?” Malfoy asks. But those fingers do not stop stroking him, a hand running against his unruly hair. “It’s the bond that’s affecting you, isn’t it?”

And as soon as Malfoy speaks, he can feel the hunger that is not quite his nor Malfoy’s—the eager desire to taste Harry Potter, to subdue him, to rip him apart until he is screaming out for mercy…he feels a darker presence in the room, the toiling rage bubbling inside the pale body looking down at him, eyes wide and wary, ever-watchful. The wolf is waiting to strike. The wolf inside Malfoy—it knows what he, Harry Potter seeks, and it is far from salvation.

Harry laughs a little. “If anyone’s being affected by the bond, it’s you, Malfoy,” he murmurs, and his lips part a little. He does not know how he looks. “Lusting for my blood, are you?”

Malfoy snarls at him, and he is pinned back against the sheets—but this does not faze him; on the contrary, with Draco Malfoy and his frenzied movements and grey eyes, he feels deliciously alive, his blood throbbing. The music inside his head stops. He does not feel the beat of the drums.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter,” Malfoy spits.

“Don’t I?” he says. “You explained it ever so nicely to me the other day. You don’t have anyone in this world to turn to, except for me—”

“I would rather it was anyone it was you!” Malfoy snaps, and his fingernails dig against his skin, and the pain makes him grin madly. “I would have rather died if I knew what this damn wolf wanted!”

“But you’re not dead,” he says quietly, watching Malfoy.

Malfoy’s grip is hard and overbearing, and Malfoy’s body looms over him, pressing against his legs.

“No,” Malfoy says coldly. “As if I’d ever give you that pleasure.”

He lets out a breath. “Yes,” he agrees, and he closes his eyes. The lust for blood and life. How he wishes he had that desire, that fervent desire to live. “I’d rather see you live, myself.”

Malfoy does not reply to that. He feels Malfoy’s thoughts: surprise. I did not think you cared. It is a thought that Malfoy quickly banishes, but he hears the echo of the shock, regardless. He feels the grip slacking, his wrists numb. A hand touches his face.

“The bond is affecting you,” Malfoy repeats his earlier assessment. A quieter voice.

He lets out an impatient laugh. “That’s not why I smothered you, Malfoy.”

“Draco.”

He opens his eyes and gives Malfoy an incredulous look.

“You called me Draco on occasion.” Malfoy has the grace to look mortified even as he speaks. “When we were—” he pauses. “—and then when we came back. You said my name.”

“You still call me Potter,” he points out. He shakes his head. “I’m not arguing about that. Fine. It had nothing to do with the bond, Draco.”

Malfoy— _Draco_ —persists. “Your mind screamed for me.”

“My mind—what?”

“I couldn’t sleep. You were screaming.” Draco looks disgruntled. “You were calling out for—” Draco stops, uncertain. “What were you calling out for?”

His mind freezes—the drums, the shouts, the cold, the empty, hollowness in his stomach. Dead Tom Riddle and his hollow eyes.

“I can’t remember,” he says, and tries to look away. Draco’s hand grips his chin and forces him to look up.

“What was it?” Draco asks.

Before he can speak, his irk gets the better of him and he imagines snapping to Draco: it was a nightmare, I thought I was about to die, I thought—(do not think his name, do not mention that boy with his dark hair and red eyes)—of you and I thought how you were alive at that moment I woke up, and I realized how wonderful and terrifying it was to breathe.

Draco’s lips curl. “You thought of me,” he says. Harry doesn’t know whether those words sound mocking or fond.

But before he could retort back a sharp reply, Draco leans down. Their lips meet—chaste and gentle, and their kiss is light and almost loving, until it is no longer so. Until their mouths open, hungry caverns, and their tongues are all too eager to devour the other.

He closes his eyes. Embraces the darkness.

.

.

.

Draco is rough with his mouth, gentle with his hands. His fingertips are cold as they skim over his ribs; Harry gasps and arches up in surprise, but Draco’s palm reaches down to push him back into the bed. Steady, Potter, Draco murmurs. The words are muffled; Harry thinks this may be a dream. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought such things—the surreal and the unexpected often happened inside his dreams, and this would be just one out of many.

But the hot breath ghosting over the shell of his ear is too loud and heavy to be called vague and stupor-like; the hands above him are firm and solid. Draco is here, alive, older; Harry tries to reach out and hold onto something. His breath comes out in quick, rapid gasps.

Riddle is silent inside his head.

Harry closes his eyes. There is complete peace—blackness and blankness, he thinks—and he only needs to feel Draco’s lips trailing on his skin, and when he opens his mouth to say a name, or even a word of plea, all he can come up with is a low rasping sound.

Potter, he hears. Potter. _Harry._

A warm weight presses upon him; arms cradle him; hair tickles the side of his neck. Draco holds him still, pinning him lest he might get away, and all the while, Harry is left shivering and left thinking that everything should be fine, he should feel happy and sated—

But there is only emptiness inside of him. He cannot even begin to comprehend his own mind. He looks up at Draco, and all he can think about is that boy with his raven hair, with his shining eyes.

Madness.

He makes a sound. A low, painful sound; Draco stops.

“Am I hurting you?” Quietly.

He shakes his head. But the sound continues. He tries to stay still but his body does not stop trembling.

“Potter.” That voice again, coming in a soft lull. “Potter, look at me.”

He feels a hand on the side of his face. Soft fingers threading through his hair. He arches back; Draco presses him down, gently.

He garbles a name. Was it the right name? It must have been—there is a tender softness at the edge of Draco’s eyes that he would later vehemently deny. So Draco Malfoy is capable of tenderness—mayhap even affection. The hands that touch him are careful and warm.

.

.

.

He has never been to Albania, but when he opens his eyes, he knows that he could be nowhere else.

The trees that surrounded him were not thick and overbearing as those he had encountered in the Forbidden Forest. He looks up and sees the night sky splattered with stars. The ground feels wet, and the breeze is welcoming—but other than that, silence.

He feels the other boy’s presence even before he sees him.

Riddle, he says.

The night is cold. But he has already experienced the chill that had rattled his bones. The forests of Albania are balmy compared to the frozen wasteland he had experienced.

He turns and noticed the lurking shadow. He does not summon light.

You have found this forest at last, it seems, he only says.

Riddle’s voice is low and amused. And how do you know what I had sought for in this forest?

You knew I was a time-traveler when I last met you. I know what you are to become. His voice sounds foreign to him. His voice carries out a hollow ring.

Yes, Riddle drawls, it seems that I have overestimated you. Meeting you when I was a child would do that for me, it seems. Foolish sentiment.

Have you overestimated me?

You seem to know facts about me—but what are you to do with them? You know of my plans, but you do not thwart them. You do not kill me. Yet you so dearly wish to—I’ve seen the look in your eyes, did you think I would not?

Riddle steps out of the shadows. In the waning moonlight, Riddle’s eyes are a deeper crimson, his skin deathly pale. His features are gaunt and beautiful. Yes—still retaining that eerie beauty. But not for long, Not much longer. Soon he will split his soul, and he would be forever marred.

So yes, Riddle says, I had overestimated you. I thought you brilliant—perhaps even terrifying—but not much longer now. You know what I have accomplished. Surely you had seen my deeds. Why, stranger, Riddle laughs. Have you come to stop me? Prevent me from accomplishing my goals?

And what might be your goals? he asks. The cold does nothing for him. He licks his lips; they are chapped and dry. He craves the warmth of his own bed, Draco pinning him against the sheets. Whispering in a frantic voice, Potter, Potter. A name that Tom Riddle does not yet know.

To become immortal, Riddle replies instantly. Isn’t that obvious? It is what all men have sought, ever since the old gods were created—it is what every great wizard was foolish enough to do, even the mighty Gellert Grindelwald…it is natural to fear death. It is human to fear it. But I shall soon be above such petty nonsense.

Riddle speaks with such clear and cold amusement. Gone are the hollowed sockets that had once been his eyes, gone is the unsteady gait he had walked with the drumbeat. Harry stares at the brazen boy. It is as if he had never seen Riddle back in that hellhole.

If I wanted you to die, he says, I would have left you there. You would not have survived that place without me.

Riddle’s eyes flare; for the first time, he looks angry.

Do you think yourself awfully noble, now, saving me? Riddle sneers. Do you consider yourself a hero, stranger?

Angry, Riddle is still a boy. Quick with his temper and sharp with his words, Riddle does not yet have the flair of coldness Voldemort would possess. But he would soon. He would soon replace his anger with a wandspell that would have his enemies crouching. Harry wonders what he would rather prefer.

Do you admit it, though? he says. He hops his voice is cajoling. He is too tired to pretend anything. I had saved you. I had killed a man for you. Now tell me—is that what an enemy would do?

When Riddle does not answer, Harry persists.

Tell me what you want, he says. Tell me what you hope to achieve.

Have I not said it already? Riddle spits. I wish to conquer death—to subdue it. I shall be immortal, as no wizard ever had been. What better way to test my powers?

He waits, expecting to hear something else. But Riddle does not speak any more, merely glowers at him. Harry waits. The words do not come, the words that Harry expects: an ode for war, the spilling of Muggle blood, the subjugation of Muggleborns, the inevitable supreme reign of purebloods. Riddle speaks about nothing but for his own selfish desires.

What was that place? he asks, when Riddle would not say any more. He is tired in this cold forest, a forest that Riddle must have hidden in for months, searching inside every hollow tree laid out before them. For a lost diadem. Put it like that, it seems as if Riddle is a child, searching for priceless treasures for his own amusement and glory.

Riddle throws him a sullen look. What place?

Where you almost died.

It was a slave camp, Riddle says coldly, Or perhaps an extermination site. I did not bother to find out the difference. Does it matter? They have all died, not long after you have so graciously rescued me.

They?

Those people you have seen in that place. Only a few would survive a death march. Winter was soon upon them.  

A death march, he repeats slowly. His head is reeling. What had I saved you from?

From a war, Riddle says. His antagonism lessens, and is replaced with scorn. Really, are all time-travelers as ignorant as you are? There is a Muggle war going on, and Grindelwald is having a grand time wrecking havoc in the Continent. Dumbledore is too much of a sentimental fool to stop him. I was caught while trying to cross Albania, Riddle says, half to himself, Really, quite foolish of me…I could have waited until the war ended.

He draws in a breath. But you went back, he croaks. No, he this is not horror he feels, not for Tom Riddle, never for this boy. You went back to Hogwarts. I saw you off.

Yes, Riddle agrees, and no one quite missed me, I had been inside that camp for a lovely summer…but it was enough. A mere two weeks was enough for them to reduce my prior self to numbers, and three weeks was plenty for my magic to fail me. I had awaited death with a vengeful fury. I did not think I would die—no, I did not allow myself that weakness. Riddle gave him a cold smirk with that last remark. And I was right.

I searched for that place after I came back to Hogwarts, Riddle says. It wasn’t easy, of course. I knew I was somewhere in the East, but I did not know where I had been, nor anything about those people who lived with me in those filthy barracks. But no matter. I was a gifted scholar, I had once found out how to spilt my soul, had I not? I had known what to seek in this dark forest of Albania. I had found—Riddle pauses for a brief moment, giving Harry a sly and mischievous look. It throws him off. I had also found out the ancient spellwork of the gods. What I wanted was a trite Muggle information. Surely, then, I would find what I sought.

Yet I could not find anything, Riddle continues. I found no records, no geographical hints of that strange hell I found myself in. What does one look for, that place where it was so impossible to describe? It was a death camp, a slave camp—that much I knew, but I had only heard rumors that sounded farcical at best in the orphanage. Tales of soldiers who dragged off dark haired boys with yellow stars in the middle of the night…but I had thought those were tales meant to frighten me. Nothing worthwhile was written on the press, so I searched in vain…

Until I saw the photos. They were blurred and grainy snapshots, partly destroyed. At first I couldn’t make out what those photos showed—a bundle of sticks, small tree limbs stacked inside a boxcar. And then I looked closer and I saw—the boxcar stuffed full of dead children, maybe a hundred, stiff and jumbled up, their postures that could have only come from being frozen to death. I looked at those pictures, hardly daring to believe—and yet I was there, was I not? In those same trains. But winter had not come for me, I had escaped—and death—death had not come. Those children had died, and around me, healthy men had withered away until I saw death in their eyes…I saw more photos, and none of those bodies were ever alive in any one of them…

But I lived, Riddle says, and his voice rises until he screams out the words. I LIVED! Isn’t that glorious, isn’t that wonderful—to be able to live? To be able to fight for life? That was what drove me in that wretched place, day after day—knowing that I was soon to die, but knowing too, that I could not die in such a place—hell would come for me, death would come for me, but it would only come when I willed it!

Riddle laughs. His maniacal, mad laughter rings around them, echoes throughout the empty forest. His laughter is like a wolf’s howl. He had forgotten Voldemort and his madness, his egoistical glee. He can see Tom Riddle now, reckless as he had never been when Harry had seen him years ago. Tom Riddle may never be so open, and he may never be this ready. His wand is in his pocket. It is not too late. He may finish this, once and for all.

But Riddle grins at him, eyes ablaze, and he looks at his future murderer and does not feel the anger and intent he would need to utter that fatal spell. The wind hisses past him, and he stands, his eyes on the boy who would one day grow up to be Lord Voldemort.

 

 

 


End file.
